


Between Sorrow and Bliss

by sunflowerseedsandscience



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Cancer Arc, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-08-24 13:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8374033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerseedsandscience/pseuds/sunflowerseedsandscience
Summary: A year (more or less) in the life of Mulder and Scully as they cope with her cancer, the forces who gave it to her, and their growing feelings for one another.The title is taken from the sublime Florence and the Machine song “Too Much is Never Enough;” specifically, from the lines, “A year like this passes so strangely, somewhere between sorrow and bliss,” which summarizes this story better than I ever could.





	1. Chapter 1

PROLOGUE: HEGEL PLACE  
WASHINGTON, D.C.  
DECEMBER 1996

 

They stumble through the apartment door side-by-side, arms slung around one another's shoulders, their feet tangling together and almost sending them sprawling onto the foyer floor. Scully giggles- a real, live giggle- and Mulder is so surprised that he stops in his tracks and gazes down at her, somewhat aware that his smile is probably verging on goofy.

"What?" asks Scully, trying to frown up at him, but dissolving into giggles again instead. Mulder reaches out and slides a finger down her cheek.

"I don't remember the last time I heard you giggle, Scully," he says. " _Have_ I ever heard you giggle?" Scully tries again to look stern.

"I do _not_ giggle, Mulder," she says, slurring her words as she staggers away from him, further into the apartment, sliding out of her trench coat as she goes. She tries to hang it from the coat tree, misses, and stands there, looking down at it lying in a heap on the floor as though unsure what to do. Mulder follows, bending down and picking it up, hanging it up along with his own. 

Scully blows her hair out of her face and staggers to the couch, collapsing onto it. She holds out a hand in Mulder's general direction, and he flops ungracefully next to her, entwining his fingers with hers. She leans her head against him and sighs.

"I needed this, Mulder," she mumbles. "Thanks for taking me out."

"No problem, Scully," he says, letting go of her hand and putting his arm around her shoulder, pulling her against him. Her head falls on his chest, and she actually snuggles into him, making him feel warm all over.

Three hours ago, sitting in his desk chair in their office, he had leaned his head against _her_ chest, his arm around her waist and her hand stroking his hair, comforting him after what had to have been the longest couple of days he'd had in months- which was really saying something. John Lee Roche, and all of the memories he'd invoked, had drained Mulder completely, and he'd realized, when Scully had turned and left the office, that he didn't really want to be alone. He'd followed her to the elevator and asked her to go for a drink... which had turned into two... then three... and finally, both of them had lost count. They'd only stopped when the bar had closed for the night, climbing into a cab together and heading back to Mulder's apartment without discussion.

So here they sit, completely blitzed, drained, sitting with their thighs pressed far too tightly together, and under the smell of God knows how many gin and tonics, Mulder can smell Scully's perfume, her shampoo, the subtle scent of her skin that he's enjoyed on occasion, whenever he's found himself close enough to her to detect it. He turns his head to the side and pushes his nose gently into the skin behind her ear. She inhales sharply.

"Mulder?" 

"Mmmmm?"

"What're you doing?"

"I'm smelling you, Scully," he says. He buries his face in her hair. "You smell good." She laughs.

"I smell like the inside of a bar, Mulder," she says. He shakes his head.

"Underneath all that," he says. "You smell like you." He sighs against her neck and nuzzles into her. "It's comforting, Scully. It always makes me feel better." He can feel her smiling against his cheek. He's pretty sure she wouldn't allow any of this if she were sober, but right now, she's soft and liquid against him. He turns his head, just a fraction, and freezes with his lips barely an inch from hers. She looks up at him, her eyes drowsy, relaxed. "Scully?"

"Yeah?"

"Why...." He licks his lips. "Why don't we?" Her eyes widen slightly.

"Mulder...." She looks like she's trying to come up with an argument, but he can see her pupils dilating. Her gaze drops from his eyes to his lips, her own mouth opening slightly.

"You want to," he says, and it's not a question... but still, she nods, just barely, and tilts her chin up a fraction of an inch, waiting. "So do I," he whispers, and then his lips are tight against hers.

Mulder has always assumed, given the amount of energy that crackles between them at any given moment, that should they ever come together, it would be wild, out of control, fireworks and hurricanes and a full-scale natural disaster contained in one coupling... but it's not. Whether because of the alcohol, or because what both of them need so badly right now is comfort and not passion, their lovemaking is slow, tender, and gentle. It doesn't last long, but Scully doesn't seem disappointed, and so Mulder doesn't feel too badly about it. When it's over, he clutches her to him and carefully reverses their positions so that he's lying on his back on the couch with her pillowed on his chest. He pulls his Navajo blanket down from the back of the couch and covers both of them with it and drifts off to sleep with the feel of her face in his neck and the smell of her hair in his nose.

When he wakes in the morning, she's gone. They never speak of it again.

 

\------------------------  
CHAPTER ONE

UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA HOSPITAL  
PHILADELPHIA, PA  
FEBRUARY 1997

 

With each sound of footfalls in the hallway outside of Scully's hospital room, her stomach clenches. The doctor has been in three separate times to try and change her mind about the CAT scan she's staunchly refused so far. All Scully wants to do is to get out of here, to get a cab to the airport, charge a ticket home to her bureau credit card, get back to her apartment, crawl into bed, and forget that this entire week ever happened.

And on Monday, when she'll have to return to work and face Mulder? She's doing her best not to think about it.

She closes her eyes, just for a moment... and she must have dozed off, because when she opens her eyes again, he's there, sitting in a chair next to her bed, looking at her, his expression unreadable. She sits up straighter.

"What are you doing here?" she asks.

"Came to pick you up," he answers. His voice is flat, and she knows immediately: he's read the police report. And he's _not_ happy. She looks away from him, out the window.

"You didn't have to do that," she says. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him shrug.

"Your doctor says you're refusing a CAT scan," he says. "Why?"

"It's unnecessary, and it will mean more time before I can go home," she replies. "My pupils are of equal size and are responding appropriately to light. I have no nausea, no disorientation, no other symptoms of a concussion."

"Except dizziness," says Mulder. "Isn't vertigo a possible symptom?"

"Not when it's because of an inner ear infection," says Scully. "I'm on antibiotics for it. Have been for a week." Mulder frowns.

"Didn't you just have an ear infection last month?" he asks. "And a couple of months before that, as well?" Scully sighs.

"Yes, I did," she says.

"Shouldn't you be concerned about that? Three ear infections in as many months?" She glares at him.

"Stop nagging me, Mulder. It's nothing. I can take care of myself."

"Clearly." His voice is icy. She opens her mouth to retort, to tell him exactly what he can do with his condescending, judgmental attitude, but he's already standing. "I'll be in the waiting room when you're done," he says, and leaves.

 

\-------------

 

Mulder does not talk to Scully at all over the weekend. They'd exchanged maybe ten words, total, between his leaving her hospital room and their flight landing in D.C. He half-expects her to not show on Monday, but she's there, perched in the chair across from his desk, looking exhausted, but more or less in one piece.

He hadn't intended to be cold and sarcastic- he'd wanted to move past this, to not let it come between them- but the hurt is just too close to the surface. He's spent all weekend thinking about it, picturing Jerse's hands on her, imagining them twined together on a couch, a bed, the floor, up against the wall- he's been tormenting himself. It all comes out in his tone the moment he says "Welcome back," and it only goes downhill from there. Scully says nothing, but he can see in her face that he's cutting her, hurting her, giving her bruises inside to match the ones Jerse put on her face. He tries to move on, to start talking about their next case, but it's no good.

"So... all this...." He manages to make his tone just a little bit softer. "Because I've... because I didn't get you a desk?"

"Not everything is about you, Mulder," she retorts. "This is my life."

"Yes, but it's my-" _It's my heart you're fucking with here, Scully_. That's what he'd like to say, but her look stops him in his tracks. It says, all too clearly, that she's got a pretty good idea of what he was going to say, and she doesn't like it. Her eyes narrow threateningly.

"Nothing I did had anything to do with you," she says. "I met a man I found attractive, and I went home with him. I'm an adult. I can do these things if I want to and I do _not_ need your permission."

"You think _that's_ what I'm upset about?" Of course that's what he's upset about, but he's not about to admit it. Unfortunately for him, she knows him far too well to be fooled.

"Yes, Mulder, I do. And none of it is any of your business. One drunken night on your couch does _not_ give you any say whatsoever in how I spend my time, or whom I spend it with."

"I'm starting to think drunken nights on couches are kind of a pattern with you, Scully."

And that's all it takes. Scully is on her feet, shouting at him, and within seconds, he's on his feet, yelling right back. They're both aiming to hurt, slinging insults and accusations without any thought to the damage they could do, and he wants to stop, but he can't, he's totally out of control... until quite suddenly, Scully's eyes fly open in panic, and she abruptly stops shouting. She claps both hands to her nose, and seconds later, a bright red gout of blood sprays out from between her fingers, spattering the desk between them. Mulder freezes in horror.

"Jesus, Scully!" He makes a grab for the box of tissues sitting on the corner of his desk, but she gets there first, snatching up a handful and pressing them to her face. Mulder rushes out from behind the desk, but Scully holds up her hand, backing away. With one hand, she keeps the rapidly-soaking tissue to her nose; with the other, she picks up her coat and briefcase.

"I need to go," she says thickly, and whirling on her heel, she tears out of the office, banging the door shut behind her. For a moment, Mulder contemplates following her... but the look on her face told him quite clearly that she won't be receptive to that. He has no idea what's going on, but it hasn't escaped him that Scully looked horrified, but not surprised, by the nosebleed. Clearly, she's not telling him something... and he's willing to bet she won't tell him until she's good and ready. He sinks back into his chair, unable to tear his eyes away from the bright red droplets decorating the file on his desk.

Ed Jerse is suddenly the furthest thing from Mulder's mind.


	2. Chapter 2

HOLY CROSS MEMORIAL HOSPITAL  
FEBRUARY 1997

 

"Any other out-of-the-ordinary symptoms, aside from the nosebleeds?"

"I've had some headaches recently." Scully perches uneasily on the end of the exam table as the doctor peers through an otoscope at her ears. "Lots of mild ones, but a few have been severe enough to require lying down for a bit."

"I see you've got a pretty good ear infection going," he comments. "Is it being treated?"

"Yes, I'm taking antibiotics," she replies. 

"Had a lot of these recently?"

"This is my third in four months." The doctor makes a noncommittal sound. Placing the otoscope on an equipment tray, he begins to palpate her neck, behind her jawline.

"Lymph nodes a bit swollen," he says. "Have you noticed any pain or stiffness there?"

"A little," Scully admits. "I just assumed I was fighting off a cold. I tend to get sick almost every year, right around this time."

"Any blurry or double vision?" Scully shakes her head. "Hearing loss? Ringing in your ears?"

"No, none."

"Stuffy nose? Sore throat?"

"Some," Scully says. "But like I said, I've just been assuming I'm coming down with a cold." The doctor nods and steps back.

"These headaches," he says. "Are they in response to stimulus? Worse at any point in the day, like after waking up, for instance?"

"Definitely worse when I wake up," she says. "And they don't _seem_ to be triggered by bright lights, but once I have one, light is definitely aggravating." The doctor nods and sits down on his exam stool.

"Well, Dana, I'd like to order an X-Ray, a CT scan, and a CBC," he says. He takes a pink hospital gown from a drawer and hands it to her. "So if you'll put that on, we'll get you right over to Imaging." 

Two hours later, Scully stands before a large light box, staring almost uncomprehendingly up at the developed x-rays, her eyes drawn irresistibly to the bright white stain in the center of her skull. The doctor's words ring again and again in her ears. _Malignancy. Inoperable. Stage III._

_Potentially terminal._

The glare from the light box is suddenly blinding, and she closes her eyes against it, against the image of the tumor. She imagines she can feel it, lurking behind the bony ridge between her eyes, biding its time, insidiously stealing the beats of her heart, rationing them out, threatening to cut them off long before she's received her natural allotment. 

Her chest constricts; she cannot catch her breath. She can feel the panicking thud of her heart fighting against her ribs, and she clenches her fists, willing herself back under control. She cannot afford to fall apart. Not now.

The doctor has asked if there's anyone she'd like to call, but the idea of burdening her mother with this news, before she's truly had time to process it herself, is unthinkable. Two years ago, her first phone call would have been Melissa... but that's no longer an option.

That leaves Mulder. And after yesterday's shouting match... she knows, deep down, that he'll put it all aside the moment he finds out what's going on. But will it be awkward?

They've never said the sorts of things they shouted at one another yesterday. There's never been a reason.

 _Enough_ , she tells herself. For all his eccentricities, Mulder is a good, kind, reasonable man. She knows he'd put aside much worse than what they've just gone through, in the face of what's to come for her. She picks up her cell phone and begins dialing.

 

\------------------

 

Mulder is concerned, but not surprised, when Skinner calls down to say Scully is taking a personal day the morning after their epic shouting session. The reason she's given Skinner is that she's more exhausted from her ordeal in Philadelphia than she'd originally thought, but Mulder is fairly certain she's just avoiding him. He doesn't blame her. If he's honest with himself, he's a little relieved that he doesn't have to face her just yet.

But by nine in the morning, relief has given way to guilt, as Mulder pictures, for the hundredth time, the hurt on Scully's face when he'd made that unforgivable comment about her making a habit of getting drunk and sleeping with random men. He can't stop thinking, either, about that sudden and startling nosebleed... or about Scully's lack of surprise, the way she'd simply clasped the tissues to her face in a frighteningly practiced gesture before speeding out of the office.

By ten o'clock, Mulder can't take it anymore. He calls Scully's apartment, and when she doesn't answer, he grabs his coat and leaves. He assumes she's screening her calls, but really, it's better he deliver his apology in person anyway. She might slam the door in his face, but he owes it to her to at least try. She was right on all counts yesterday: he _was_ upset because she'd gone home with Jerse, and not because she'd handed off the case, and it's _not_ any of his business who she sleeps with.

Much as he'd like it to be.

He thinks about that night in December often, the night they'd closed the Roche case, the night they'd made slow, sweet, and ultimately sloppy love on his couch. He remembers thinking, just as he'd fallen asleep, that maybe, if she was still there in the morning, it was a sign that the time was right, finally, for him to tell her how he feels. He'd dozed off dreaming of what he'd say, of what she'd say back, of all the things he'd always wanted to do with her, all the experiences he'd wanted them to share.

He hadn't been surprised when she'd been gone in the morning... but he'd still been crushed.

Maybe his jealousy had been a little justified, he reminds himself, but his behavior certainly hadn't been. He'd been so far out of line that he's surprised Scully hadn't slapped him. He'd deserved it. Which is why, en route to Scully's apartment, he stops at a florist and purchases an appropriate "Sorry I was an asshole" bouquet. 

If this were a romance movie, he thinks to himself, this would be the part just before the happy ending, where the hero shows up at his true love's door, the appearance of a third party finally having forced him to confront his true feelings. The angry words of the day before would be forgiven and forgotten, and he and Scully would fall into one another's arms and live happily ever after.

He's just finished paying and is leaving the shop when his cell phone rings. He assumes it's Skinner, calling to ask where he's run off to, and he's already formulating a cover story when he answers.

"Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me." 

"Scully? Hey, I was just on my way over to your place. How're you feeling?"

"I'm not home, Mulder," she says. He frowns.

"Out at your mother's?" There's a silence on the line. "Scully? You there?"

"Mulder, I'm at Holy Cross Memorial Hospital," she says. "Can you come and meet me?" He freezes on the sidewalk, pedestrians behind him bumping into him.

"Have you been in an accident? Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm not hurt," she says, and Mulder exhales in relief. "I just, uh... I need you here right now. Okay?" Her tone of voice is unfamiliar to him. Suddenly he's not feeling quite so relieved.

"I'm on my way now," he says. "Are you in the waiting room? The ER?"

"Oncology," she says, so softly that at first, he's sure he's misheard her.

"Scully," he says, his voice strained. He doesn't know what else to say. His heart is splitting apart in his chest, and he doesn't even know what's wrong yet.

"Ask at the nurse's station," is all she says. "I've told them I'll be expecting you." There's a click, and the line goes dead, leaving Mulder standing dumbstruck on the sidewalk, willing his feet to move.

Mulder looks down at the bouquet of flowers, dangling from his hand. The image that had been in his head moments ago, of showing up at Scully's door and taking her into his arms, fades quickly away.

Clearly, this is not a romance movie. And that happy ending is looking less likely than ever.

 

\-------------------

 

When Mulder had been in junior high, his father's sister Sarah had been diagnosed with what he thinks was either breast or ovarian cancer (he bases this guess off of the fact that nobody would tell him _what_ kind of cancer she had, and he can't think of a reason his mother would have had any problems using the words "lungs" or "stomach" with her teenaged son). He remembers visiting her in her home, near the end, and finding her propped up in bed, thin as a rail, her bald head covered by a silk scarf, her eyes sunken and her cheeks completely hollowed out.

As Mulder drives Scully back to the Hoover Building to speak with Skinner, the image of his Aunt Sarah flashes across his mind- only, it's Scully's face he sees, her beautiful red hair lost to the poisons pumped through her body to expel the invader. He knows it's an incredibly superficial thing to focus on, but he can't help it: Scully's hair is one of his favorite things, physically, about her. It had been one of the first things he'd noticed on the day they'd met, the way it shone, even under the dim lights of the basement office. He'd used it to spot her in a crowd countless times, the distinctive copper hue compensating for her diminutive height, making her easier to see.

He knows, at some level, that he's fixating on this one detail only because everything else about this is so completely terrifying. The thought that Scully could be... that she could....

"Mulder, are you okay?" He glances over at Scully, in the passenger seat, looking at him with concern in her eyes, and he suddenly realizes he's about two steps away from hyperventilating. She reaches out and puts a hand on his arm. "Do you need to pull over for a minute? Should I drive?" Jesus Christ, she's just been diagnosed with _cancer_ , and she's worrying about _him_ over a little heavy breathing?

"I'm fine, Scully," he manages to choke out- and she actually _smiles_.

"Isn't that my line?" She rubs his arm comfortingly. "Just breathe, Mulder." Her touch calms him, like it always does, and he manages a deep, shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he says, finally. "For yesterday. For the hospital in Philadelphia." He glances over at her, then back at the road. "You were right. It was none of my business."

"Apology accepted," she says. "So... we see Skinner, and then drive to Allentown?"

"Unless you need to stop off anywhere first," he says. She shakes her head. "Are you sure, Scully? Your mom's house isn't too far out of the way...."

"Not yet, Mulder."

"She deserves to know, Scully."

"And she will. I just... I want to have more information first, okay? She's going to have questions... at least let me figure out what my treatment plan is going to be first." He nods in acquiescence. 

"Do you know anything about what treatments you're going to have yet?"

"I assume chemotherapy and radiation will both be involved," she sighs. "But I don't know the specifics." She leans her head against the headrest. "Do you want to hear something ridiculous, Mulder?"

"Always," he says, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.

"Right now, I'm more afraid of the chemo than anything else. You know how much I _hate_ throwing up." Now he does smile in earnest, because he absolutely does know. She'd come down with a stomach bug once, while they'd been out of town on a case, and it remains the only time she had ever quit in the middle of an active investigation. She'd locked herself in her motel room, screaming at him to leave when he'd used his key to let himself in and check on her, and it had taken all his powers of persuasion to convince her to let him take care of her, to let him bring her ginger ale and Pepto Bismol and tuck her into bed.

He says a silent prayer to whomever might be listening that, in the weeks and months to come, she won't require quite so much persuasion before she'll let him help. Right now, he thinks that taking care of her is the only thing that's going to get him through this.

"It's a stupid thing to be focusing on, isn't it?" she asks him, and he's immediately reminded of his own earlier worries over her hair. They're both doing the same thing right now, he realizes. The real issue at hand is too awful to contemplate, too frightening to dwell on, and so they're both thinking, instead, of smaller, more manageable fears, things they both know can be overcome.

"No, Scully," he answers. "To be honest, I'm pretty worried about that, too." She frowns.

"You are?"

"Yup," he says. "I mean, the last time I saw you throwing up, you practically bit my head off just for offering to help you back to bed. Are you going to do that every time I try to take care of you after your treatments, or can you just get it all out of your system ahead of time?" Scully says nothing for a long time. Mulder glances over at her, concerned... and is horrified to find that she's crying. "Shit, Scully, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be joking around." She shakes her head, wiping her eyes. "You know me, Scully, I don't know what to say, so I panic and say the wrong thing, and-"

"It wasn't the wrong thing to say, Mulder," she says, digging a tissue out of her pocket and dabbing at her eyes. "Not at all. I just... that you would...." She shakes her head. "It's going to be messy, Mulder. If my treatment includes chemotherapy, it's going to be aggressive, which means I'm going to be extremely sick."

"Scully," he says, reaching across the console to take her hand, "no matter what it looks like, I'm here for whatever you need." She draws a long, shuddering breath, and tucks the tissue back into her pocket.

"I can't promise I'll find it easy to let you help, Mulder," Scully says. Mulder nods. He knows her, knows how difficult it is for her to let anyone- even him- see her as anything less than ironclad, fully capable, able to handle anything. "But if I do... I promise not to yell at you about it." She smiles slightly. "Not too much, anyway."


	3. Chapter 3

ALLENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA  
FEBRUARY 1997

 

Mulder stands in Betsy Hagopian's apartment, staring down at his cell phone, dimly aware of Kurt Crawford standing behind him, continuing to search through the files. He knows what he needs to do... but the prospect is deeply upsetting, and he needs a moment to collect himself first.

 _This is a good sign_ , Mulder tells himself. _She's already asking for help, already asking me to do things for her._ He knows Scully, knows how she feels about not being able to do absolutely everything herself, knows how much it's likely cost her pride to request this of him. But it was only this morning that he'd told her he would be here for her, here for whatever she needs, and he'd meant it.

He just hadn't anticipated that the first thing she'd need would be for him to him to break the news of her diagnosis to her mother.

Mulder turns to Kurt Crawford. "Excuse me a moment," he says. "I need to go and make a quick phone call." Crawford nods without looking up, and Mulder steps out into the hallway, dialing Maggie Scully's number as he goes. She answers on the second ring.

"Hello?" Mulder opens his mouth to speak... but nothing comes out. "Hello, is someone there?"

"Mrs. Scully? It's Fox Mulder." Through the phone, he can hear her sharp intake of breath.

"Fox? Is everything all right?" _No, Mrs. Scully, everything's going to hell on a high-speed train, and your only remaining daughter's decided the best thing I can do to help her is to call you and break your heart into a million pieces._

"Dana asked me to call you," he says, and he hears Mrs. Scully let out a breath. If Scully's making requests, it means, at the very least, that she's both alive and conscious- which is not always a given, in their line of work. "We're in Allentown on an investigation, and she's... she...." Words fail him. He thinks, suddenly, that he should have driven down, that breaking this news over the phone is not the way to go. "Dana got some news from her doctor this morning, Mrs. Scully. She's at a hospital here, preparing for treatment, and she asked that you stop by her apartment and bring some things up to her." Silence. "Really, I think she just wants you with her, and bringing her clothes is an excuse." No response. "Mrs. Scully?"

"What news?" Maggie's voice is barely more than a whisper. "What sort of treatment?"

"Chemotherapy," says Mulder. He can hear the hitch in Maggie's breathing as she begins to cry. "You know what, Mrs. Scully? Why don't you forget the clothes and just come up here? I can get whatever Dana needs later on. Right now I think she needs you more than anything."

"Fox," gasps Maggie, "I _can't._ My car is in the shop... I took a cab home, it won't be ready until the end of the week...." Mulder does a mental calculation. If he drives down to Washington, picks up Maggie, and comes back, it will be after midnight by the time he's at the hospital with Scully. Not good enough. Lehigh Valley Airport is nearby... but he's pretty sure he won't be able to charge a plane ticket for Maggie to the FBI. On the phone, he can hear her trying her best to keep from crying. _Fuck it,_ he thinks. If the bureau disputes the charge, he'll pay for it himself.

"Maggie, can you get a cab to the airport?" he asks.

"Yes, I can, but-"

"I'll call you back in a few minutes with your flight information. This late in the day, I might not be able to get anything until tomorrow, but it'll be better than waiting for your car. I'll meet you at the airport and drive you to the hospital, and I'll tell you everything we know so far on the way."

 

\-------------

 

When Maggie slides into the passenger seat of Mulder's car, he can immediately tell she hasn't slept since their conversation the previous afternoon.

"How is she?" she asks Mulder, without preamble.

"She's fine, Maggie," he says. "She's been speaking with her doctor about a treatment plan. They're going to start right away."

"I need to know everything, Fox," Maggie says. "Please. Don't leave anything out." Mulder nods.

"She'd been having some nosebleeds," he says. "Nothing too serious. But they wouldn't go away, so she went to the hospital and got checked out. A CT scan and head x-ray showed what's called a nasopharyngeal mass. It's between her sinus and her brain." He swallows hard. "Because of the location, surgery isn't an option." Maggie covers her face with her hands. "Scully- Dana- says her treatment will include chemo and radiation, but beyond that, she doesn't have all the details yet."

"Why are you all the way up here?" Maggie asks. "Why isn't she seeking treatment at home?"

"We were chasing down a lead," says Mulder, aware of how ridiculous that sounds under the circumstances. What kind of madman takes his partner, fresh from a cancer diagnosis, straight into the field on an investigation? "We'd met some women, earlier, who had been through the same thing Dana went through two years ago. They'd been abducted by persons or forces unknown, and returned seemingly unhurt, but with a chip embedded in the skin on the backs of their necks. The women had all removed the chips, and had all developed cancer shortly thereafter." Maggie's eyes are wide and disbelieving. "We went to Allentown to talk with one of those women about the treatment she'd been receiving."

"Was it helping her?" Mulder is silent. "Fox? Please, tell me."

"The woman we came to speak to... had already passed away," he says with difficulty. "But we were able to get in touch with another woman still receiving the treatment, and talk to the doctor in charge of her care. He thinks he's isolated the cause, and that in the case of the other women, he just got to them too late to help them." Maggie nods.

"Fox...." She looks at him, tears in her eyes. "Fox, how is she handling it? Is she scared?" In spite of everything, Mulder can't help but smile.

"Scared?" he asks. "She's Scully. If she's scared, she's not letting it show. At least, not to me." He smiles encouragingly at Maggie. "But maybe you'll have more luck." The set of Maggie's jaw is tense.

"I doubt that," she says. "After all, you're the one she called. Not me." Mulder's stomach clenches.

"Maggie, she just wanted to have as much information as possible before she spoke to you," he says. "The moment it looked like she might have some answers, she wanted you with her right away."

"I don't _need_ for her to have answers for me before I can be there for her, Fox," Maggie says. "I'm her mother. I don't need to have a detailed treatment plan in order to be with her and help her through this."

"She doesn't like asking for help," Mulder says. "You know that better than I do." Maggie shakes her head.

"She'll need to learn soon," she says grimly. "This isn't the sort of thing anyone should go through on their own."

 

\----------------

 

For the first few minutes after the IV has been placed in her arm, Scully's overriding thought is that it's not nearly as bad as she's been expecting. There's a slight twinge in her stomach, similar to what she might feel during a particularly bumpy plane ride, but it's nothing she can't handle. She relaxes in the recliner, and in her mind, she sees herself coasting through her treatments, never missing a day of work, keeping up effortlessly, the much-dreaded scenario of Mulder finding her vomiting in her apartment or motel room never coming to pass.

Fifteen minutes in, this lovely fantasy is rudely dispatched as she leans over and throws up violently, painfully, into the emesis basin the nurses have provided. She requires a replacement basin within minutes.

Soaked in sweat and shaking violently, she sits back in the recliner, closing her eyes and trying to inhale slowly and deeply. Her stomach feels as though it's trying to turn itself inside-out, and already, her lower back is beginning to ache from the force of her vomiting. She knows, from what the doctor told her when she'd first received her diagnosis, that in order to have any chance of working, any treatment she undergoes will need to be aggressive, which will mean severe side effects. But this? This is much, much worse than she's been expecting.

She's so relieved her mother's gone home. Maggie had already been upset enough by the mere fact of her daughter's cancer; watching her go through this would have been too much. Scully is still reeling from the guilt she feels at Melissa's death. She can't stand to cause her mother any more pain.

In the back of her mind, as she's sick yet again, she wishes for Mulder to be with her, to hold her hand through this, but she shuts the traitorous voice up as forcefully as she can. She doesn't want him to see her like this, pale and sweaty, trembling, her head and limbs so heavy that it takes everything she's got to lean over enough to keep the contents of her stomach from spilling down the front of her hospital gown. He's said he'll be there, that he'll help her with whatever she needs, and she's grateful... but when he'd said that, he couldn't possibly have been picturing anything like this. 

Now, more than ever, she's thankful for her early-morning moment of panic on his couch back in December. If she'd stayed, if they'd talked about it when he'd woken up, she doesn't doubt that it would have gone further than just a one-night stand, and if it had, Mulder would most like feel more compelled to be by her side through everything than he already does.

It's not that it hadn't been a struggle for Scully to pull herself up, off of the couch, away from Mulder's warm, comfortable chest, from his heartbeat thudding in her ear. It absolutely had been. But as much as part of her had wanted to stay, wanted to simply let whatever happened, happen, a larger part of her had been terrified by the idea. They would be risking their partnership, as well as their friendship... but more than that, there's a truth about herself that Mulder does not know, that Scully herself is still coming to grips with.

Scully just doesn't know how to _do_ relationships. She feels as though she lacks the ability, so innate in the people around her, to really and truly let go, to share all of herself with another person. Every single relationship she's ever been in- Jack, Ethan, Daniel, even her college and high school boyfriends- has been halfhearted at best. In every instance, they had pressured her to give more, to open up, to let them in... and she had resisted, she'd always resisted, she'd shut down, and the relationship had ended. 

Scully suspects that it might be different with Mulder. She knows, on some level, that she's already shared more of herself with him than she ever did with any of the men she's ever dated. But really, she can't decide whether that makes the idea of being with him more or less frightening.

She's been on her own for so long, she's not sure she knows how to exist any other way.

 

\--------------

 

Mulder holds the vial of Scully's ova carefully, like the bombshell it is, terrified that he might drop it, and even more terrified of the implications. Could it be true, that on top of everything else, Scully is now barren? He looks up at the Kurt Crawford hybrid who's accompanied him into the vault.

"I'm not leaving these behind," he says savagely. "I'm not leaving them here so that _they_ can use them. They've taken enough from her already." Crawford nods in agreement.

"No, I don't imagine you would want to leave them," he says. He retrieves a cold storage transport container from a shelf at the end of the vault and gives it to Mulder. "They'll keep in this cooler for seventy-two hours. You'll need to arrange to have them stored at a suitable facility before then, if there's any chance for them to remain viable." Mulder carefully situates the vial inside the cooler and closes it. "You need to leave immediately," says Crawford. "There's no possible way they don't already know you're here. You're no help to your partner if they catch you." Mulder looks around, at the drawers full, presumably, of ova taken from other women, used to create the hybrids he's seen here, and who knows how many others in other locations. He looks back at Crawford, who seems almost to be waiting for Mulder to ask the question that's at the tip of his tongue... but Mulder cannot bring himself to do it. He doesn't want to know, he discovers, doesn't want to be able to answer Scully, should she ask him, one day, whether or not her ova have already been used.

The most he can do right now, he thinks, is to get the vial back to her. What she does with it after, whether she decides to use it or not, will be up to her, and her alone.

If that decision's already been made without her consent... he fervently hopes she never finds out. She's been violated enough already.

 

\-----------------

 

He knows he should tell her about the ova. 

He should have told her in the hallway, when she'd come out of Penny Northern's room... but he hadn't. He couldn't bring himself to add to what she's going through. It had been a shock, the way she'd looked sitting by Penny's bedside, the way she'd looked in the hallway. She'd looked perfectly healthy when she'd arrived; could a single chemotherapy session have worn her down this much? Mulder knows nothing about cancer treatments; he has no idea if this is normal, or if Scanlon added something to the chemotherapy drugs that's made Scully this much sicker. Is she going to react this badly to all her treatments?

Still... he should tell her. She has a right to know, and she's going to be furious with him if she ever finds out he withheld something like this from her. He makes up his mind, immediately after hanging up the phone with Skinner, to go straight to her room, right now, and explain everything he and the Gunmen had found at the Center for Reproductive Medicine.

But his resolve falls to the floor and shatters the moment he walks into her room.

Scully is lying in her bed, propped up slightly, barely awake. She gives him a sleepy smile as she enters.

"Thought you'd gone already," she murmurs. He shakes his head.

"I just wanted to make sure you were all right before I went back to the motel," he says, crossing to stand by her bed. "Can I get you anything?" She shakes her head.

"I just need to sleep," she says. She looks a little embarrassed, toying with the edge of her blanket. She opens her mouth to speak, but he cuts her off, knowing what she's going to ask already.

"I'll stay, Scully," he says. "Just until you fall asleep. And if you need me at any point during the night, call my cell, and I'll be right here." She smiles gratefully and reaches for his hand.

"Thank you," she says. Mulder settles himself into a chair by her bed, never letting go of her hand, and watches her as she closes her eyes.

He'll tell her. He will. But not tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

Scully has to ask Mulder to pull over three times on the drive back to D.C. so that she can get out of the car and be quietly sick by the side of the road. Mulder tries to get out with her the first time, but she waves him back, and so he waits in the driver's seat, holding a bottle of water and a handful of napkins, which he offers her each time she climbs back into the car.

She sleeps through the rest of the trip, leaving Mulder alone with his thoughts. She's been doing little else besides sleeping for the past forty-eight hours, and it seems that's likely to continue. It's a blessing, really, since the only thing she's managed to do while awake is to be sick. 

"Is it going to be this bad every time?" Mulder had asked hesitantly, that morning, as they'd been preparing to leave the hospital.

"I'm not sure, but I hope not," she'd answered, her raw throat making her voice hoarse and weak. "I've had the nurses draw some blood from me and send it to Quantico, so that we can see if Scanlon gave me something aside from the standard chemotherapy drugs he claimed were in my IV."

"Do you think he did?"

"I don't know," she'd said honestly. "My gut instinct tells me no. I think that whatever Scanlon was doing to those women, it was happening during what he claimed was gene therapy, after the chemo and radiation had already knocked their immune systems down. He never got the chance to get to that point with me."

"Thank God for that," Mulder had said fervently, and she'd given him as close to a smile as she could manage.

"I also had them take a sample of Penny's blood," she'd confessed quietly. "I don't know if we'll be able to tell anything from it... but I want to know what Scanlon was doing to these women. If we ever come across him again... I want to have hard evidence to convict him."

 

\-----------------

 

Scully comes slowly awake as Mulder stops the car in front of her building. She remains perfectly still for nearly a minute, making sure the last mouthful of water she'd managed will stay put, and when she's got her bearings, she sits up and unbuckles her seatbelt. Mulder, by this point, has retrieved her bag (and his, she notices) from the trunk, and is waiting at her open door, his hand held out to her. She takes it in her own and allows him to help her from the car. She sways on the spot, her limbs almost too heavy to move, as Mulder threads an arm around her waist. He helps her up the front walk, and she's too exhausted to fight him, too tired to insist she can do it on her own. She doesn't even attempt to dig for her keys herself; she's content to let him pull his own set out of his coat pocket, unlock the door, and help her in. 

She shrugs her coat off and drops it onto the couch, not bothering to hang it up, and floats, dreamlike, down the hallway to her bedroom. Her shoes are abandoned by the door, her blazer on top of her dresser, and she's just begun to unbutton her blouse when she realizes, suddenly, that Mulder has followed her into the room. She gives up on undressing- she doesn't have the energy to dig out pajamas, much less go into the bathroom to put them on- and falls onto her bed. She's cold, and dimly aware of her underwire bra digging uncomfortably into her side, but she'd need to stand back up in order to turn down the bed, much less remove her bra, and that's out of the question.

"Hey." Mulder's soft voice at her bedside takes her by surprise- she hadn't heard him approach. "You'll be more comfortable if you get changed first, Scully," he says. He retrieves a pair of pajamas from her dresser and places them next to her. "Come on. I'll go get you some water in case you get thirsty during the night." When he leaves the room, she forces herself to perform the Herculean task of sitting up, of unbuttoning her blouse and unhooking her bra, sliding everything off and dropping it to the floor. She wiggles into her pajamas and sits there, willing herself to stand up long enough to pull down the covers.

Mulder returns with her water and finds her there, eyes closed, breathing slowly and deeply. He places the glass on her nightstand, slides his arms around her, and helps her to her feet. He leans around her and tugs on the comforter and sheet, folding them down, and lowers her back down onto the mattress. Dimly, in the back of her mind, Scully tries to chastise herself for allowing this, for being so helpless in front of him... but it just feels so _good_ to let him do this, to let him take care of her. He tucks the blankets around her and smooths her hair back from her head.

"Get some sleep, Scully," he whispers. "I'll be right here if you need me." She manages to shake her head.

"You can go," she mumbles. "M'okay now. Just gonna sleep." She sighs and curls more tightly into herself. "You can go home, Muller." She's asleep before he even has the chance to answer her.

Scully wakes, hours later, to a bone-deep ache in her limbs. She's been warned that this would likely happen within a few days of her chemo, but the severity takes her by surprise. She has a bottle of prescription painkillers in her purse... and just the thought of making her way all the way to the living room to retrieve them is enough to make her moan in agony.

There's a shifting sound from the corner of the pitch-black room, and she freezes. In the darkness, she can just barely make out a slouched form in the armchair in the corner. She frowns to herself. Hadn't she told him to leave? Or had she just dreamt that in her fog of exhaustion?

"Mulder?" The shape in the chair sits up.

"You all right Scully? Can I get you anything?" She tries to prop herself up on her elbows, but her arms don't seem to want to respond.

"What are you doing here?" she asks. "I thought I told you to go home." He stands and crosses the room, and now she can see his face in the streetlight shining through the window. She'd definitely told him; he's wearing his instantly recognizable "I didn't do what you told me, Scully" face.

"You did, but I... uh... I wanted to be here if anything happened. You okay?" She wants to lie and say she's fine... but he's here, and she's in pain, and the pills in her purse are so very, very far away.

"I'm having some bone pain," she admits. "The prescription painkillers I got at the hospital are-"

"In your purse." Mulder turns and heads for the door. "Be right back." He returns in moments with the bottle. "Two?"

"Yes." He shakes out the pills and holds them out... then seems to notice, suddenly, that she's having a hard time sitting up. Worry crosses his face. "That bad?"

"Yeah," she whispers. He places the pills on the nightstand and bends over, sliding his arms behind her shoulders and helping her sit up. He hands her the painkillers and her water, taking the glass back from her when she's done and replacing it on the table. He supports her as she lies back down. "Thank you," she says. "You didn't have to stay."

"It's a good thing I did, though," he says, sitting on the bed by her hip. She can't disagree with that- she has no idea how she would have gotten to her medication without him. "Anything else I can do for you?" She's about to tell him no... but he's here, and her defenses are down, and everything just hurts so _badly_ right now. If there were a moment it wouldn't be awkward to ask, it's now.

"Can you stay?" she asks. "Here?" He smiles warmly, and no, it's not awkward at all. He seems to almost have been hoping she'd ask.

"Sure, Scully," he says. He goes around to the other side of the bed, so that she doesn't have to move, kicks off his shoes, and stretches out on her other pillow. He's not close enough to touch, but he's close enough that she can close her eyes and inhale his scent, the remnants of his aftershave and the smell of his skin, and it comforts her as she waits for the painkillers to take effect. He reaches across the mattress and slips his hand into hers.

She falls asleep with his thumb stroking the back of her hand and his eyes resting on her face, feeling more at peace than she has since the moment she was diagnosed.

 

\-------------

 

When Mulder wakes up, Scully's side of the bed is empty.

He panics for a moment, but as he moves further into consciousness, he becomes aware of the sounds of someone moving quietly around the kitchen. He stands and goes in search of Scully.

He finds her making toast, moving perhaps a bit more slowly than normal, but clearly not in anywhere near as much pain as she'd been in last night.

"Morning," he says. She glances up at him, then quickly back down again.

"Good morning," she says. She nods at the coffeemaker. "There's coffee, if you want it. I was feeling better, so I thought I'd try some toast."

"Good idea," he says. He pours himself a mug. "But why don't you sit down and I'll get it for you?" She shakes her head.

"No, I've got it," she says, her voice clipped. She's still not looking at him, and alarm bells begin sounding in his head. Something is wrong here.

"Scully?" Now she does look at him.

"Mulder," she says, taking a deep breath, "I'd like to apologize for the way I've behaved, these past few days. I've been incredibly unprofessional since my diagnosis, and I want you to know that it stops now. I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable."

_Shit._

"Scully, I don't mind at all," he protests. "I'm happy to help with whatever you need. It doesn't bother me."

"It bothers _me_ ," she says. "The only excuse I have is the initial shock of finding out all of this, but the shock is wearing off now, so it's time for me to-"

"To what, Scully? To start going it alone?" Her eyes flash dangerously, but he keeps going. "To try to be some kind of superwoman? Scully, you don't have to have an excuse to need help from someone, and you sure as hell never need to have an excuse to ask for help from me. I want to be there for you, for whatever you need. I'm your partner... and more than that, I'd _like_ to think I'm your friend." 

"You are, Mulder," she says, but she's not looking at him. "And if I really do need help, I'll ask. But I'm fine now, okay?" That word. That goddamn word. He's going to keep a fucking count in his head of the number of times she says it.

"Of course you are," he says shortly. He takes his untouched coffee and places the mug in the sink. "Let me know when you're coming back to work, Scully. I'll see you then."

He thinks, for a moment, that she might call out to him, ask him not to leave... but he should know better. Scully's asked him to do more for her in the past four days than she has in the past four years, and as quickly as he's gotten used to it, it's brutally clear that, for the time being, that's come to an end.


	5. Chapter 5

Scully is back at work the following Monday, her hair and makeup impeccable, her armor of tailored suits and three-inch heels in place, looking a thousand miles removed from the sick and shaking version of herself Mulder had escorted home less than a week ago.  

"I've met with my doctor, and we've formulated a new treatment plan," she informs Mulder first thing in the morning on Monday.  "We'll be alternating chemotherapy and radiation each week.  I've asked that my treatments always be on Friday afternoons, so that I'll have the weekend to recover."

"Good idea," says Mulder.  He promises himself, immediately, that no matter what case they're on, he will have her back in D.C. every Friday by noon, and he will _not_ bother her with work on the weekends.  "Did your doctor say... will all your chemo treatments be like that first one?"

"You mean, will I be that sick every time?"  He nods.  "Probably not.  It's still going to be aggressive, but my doctor promised me that it will be far less intense than what Scanlon did to me."  Mulder sighs in relief.  Seeing Scully like that... he hadn't been prepared for it, not at all.

 

The analysis of both her blood and Penny Northern's have come back from the lab, and as Scully had suspected, her own blood showed nothing but the expected chemotherapy drugs, albeit in far higher concentrations than even the most aggressive standard treatments would call for.  Penny Northern's blood, in addition to a similarly high level of drugs, had shown an additional chemical compound that was not readily identifiable.  Scully believes- and Mulder agrees with her- that Scanlon has likely been simultaneously poisoning his patients, bit by bit, and continuing the experiments on them that they'd been subjected to during their abductions.

 

Mulder is profoundly grateful, even more than before, that Scanlon had been unmasked before he'd truly gotten his claws into Scully.

 

\------------------

 

They're out of town within days of Scully's first radiation treatment.  It's only Connecticut, and everything is resolved in less than a day, so they easily could have driven back that same night, but Mulder's noticed Scully leaning against the wall at the police station, her eyes blinking slowly, and he's counted seventeen yawns unsuccessfully hidden behind her hands in the past hour, so he books them into a motel for the night.

"Chinese?  Indian?  Pizza?" he asks her, striding through the unlocked connecting door once he's put his bags down.  She's lying on her back on her bed, one arm slung across her eyes.

"I'm not hungry, Mulder," she says.  

"Come on, Scully, you haven't eaten since lunch," he says.  "Humor me, okay?"  She squints at him, and after a moment, she sighs.

"Pizza, then," she says.  "Go order while I get changed."

By the time the food arrives, Scully's dozing on her bed in her pale blue button-down pajamas, and Mulder has to shake her gently awake.  She gives it her best effort, but before she's more than two-thirds of the way through her first slice, she puts it down with a sigh.

"Everything tastes wrong," she says.  "It tastes... almost metallic."

"Is that a side effect of the chemo?" Mulder asks, and she nods.

"It seems incredibly unfair," she comments.  "If it's going to destroy my appetite, couldn't they maybe find a way to get the drugs to make food taste _better_?"

"If you need something to help you want to eat, Scully, I'm sure the Gunmen could find someone to hook you up."  He's only half-joking, but the look Scully gives him is enough to know she won't be receptive to the idea- at least, not yet.  Scully used to be able to match him course for course when they'd shared meals, and he’d give anything to see her eat like that again.  It's almost enough to make him consider talking to the boys on his own and spiking her food without her knowledge.

Almost.  

As Mulder is regarding the leftover pizza, wondering if it will keep long enough for him to transport it back to his apartment tomorrow, Scully gives a sudden wet cough.  Mulder looks up just in time to see a frightening amount of blood gushing from her nose, spattering the collar of her pajamas and dripping down onto her pants.  She swears and leaps up, running to the bathroom.  Mulder tries to follow, but she waves him away, slamming the door as soon as she's inside, effectively shutting him out.

"Scully," he calls, through the door, "can I do anything?"  He doesn't bother asking if she's all right; he knows exactly what her response will be.

"No, Mulder," she calls thickly.  He hears the water running, then shutting off.  The door opens and Scully strides out, clad in only her bra and panties.

"You've seen it before, Mulder," Scully snaps, in response to his wide eyes and open mouth.

"I was drunk," he mutters.  "Doesn't count."  She ignores him and rummages in her suitcase, then stands back up, swearing to herself.  "What's wrong?"

"I meant to put an extra set of pajamas in my bag, in case this happened," she says.  "I must have forgotten."  She examines her cast-off skirt and blouse from earlier and sighs, picking the button-down shirt up.

"Wait a second, Scully," says Mulder, and he runs to his room.  He opens his case, and from the corner, removes the wadded-up Knicks t-shirt he'd packed in case he had an opportunity for a run.  He goes back to Scully's room, handing her the shirt.  "You can sleep in this," he says.  She looks skeptical.  "Come on, Scully, it's just a shirt.  You'd agree to borrow it if it was pizza you'd gotten on your pajamas, right?"  She nods, reluctantly.  "Let me do this much for you, okay?"  With a sigh, she snatches the t-shirt from his hand and returns to the bathroom.  

Mulder uses a handful of napkins to clean Scully's blood off of the table where they'd been eating.  He turns when he hears the bathroom door opening again... and his breath stops in his throat.  Scully in nothing but one of his shirts is a fantasy he's had for a long, long time, and it does not disappoint.  The shirt hits her six inches above her knees, exposing the smooth, milky skin of her toned legs.  Mulder fights the urge to drop to his knees in front of her and press his lips to the inside of her thigh.  Looking higher, he can see the hardened tips of her nipples poking at the thin cotton, and his cock twitches to attention in his pants.  He mentally rebukes himself- she's just had blood gushing from her nose, and he's ogling her tits?  Pathetic.  He forces his gaze up to her face.

“Thanks for the shirt," she says.  She's pointedly ignoring his attentions as she goes to her bed and turns it down.  "I'm going to get some sleep, okay?"  He nods.

"Do you... I mean, would you like me to-"

"To what, Mulder?"  She looks at him, her blue eyes piercing.  "I'm fine.  I just want to go to bed."  No, she doesn't want him to stay.  He nods and stands, crossing to her.  She narrows her eyes, but he bends down, undeterred, and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, lingering until he feels her relax and lean against him, ever so slightly. He reaches out and rests one tentative hand at her waist. “Mulder,” she whispers in a breathy voice that sets his heart racing, “what are you doing?” He draws back far enough to see her whole face, and when he catches sight of her eyes, he lets go of her hip immediately. The look she is giving him is _not_ a look of invitation.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, stepping back. “I guess I just-“

“You just what?” Scully’s hands are on his hips. “You just thought that because my defenses were down after what happened in Allentown, I’m going to be like that all the time now? Needy and clingy, every time I get a nosebleed or feel a little sick?”

“Jesus, Scully, no!” He’s practically got whiplash from her sudden change in mood. “You weren’t needy, Scully, and I don’t think you could _ever_ be clingy. There’s nothing wrong with letting me help you. Why the hell can’t you see that?” 

“Mulder, I asked you to sleep in my bed with me. Do you have any idea how far removed from professional conduct that is?”

“Do _you_ have any idea how much I don’t care? I _wanted_ to do it!” he insists. “I needed it so much more than you did, Scully. I _still_ need it.” She frowns, momentarily disarmed by his admission.

“Why?” she asks.

“Scully,” he says, his voice hoarse with emotion, “don’t you _know_?”

For a fraction of a second, he sees something in her eyes, a flash of joyful understanding… but as quickly as it comes, it’s shut down, and she’s scowling.

“Mulder, I need to get some sleep,” she says. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” Her arms are folded tightly across her chest and her expression is closed; he’s been dismissed. There’s no use arguing. He nods shortly.

“Goodnight, Scully,” he says, and grabbing the leftover pizza from the table, he returns to his room.

 

————————-

 

Mulder wakes from a sound sleep hours later. He doesn’t see- or hear- so much as sense Scully sitting on the edge of his bed. He reaches out his hand before he even opens his eyes, and she takes it in hers.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not very good at it.”

“At what, Scully?” He squints at her in the darkness. She’s holding his hand tightly in hers, but she’s facing away from him, her head bowed.

“Needing people,” she says softly. 

“I’d like to help you practice, Scully, if you’ll let me,” he says. He tugs on her hand, and she turns and crawls slowly up the bed towards him. He can tell the aching is bothering her tonight. He opens his arms and she lies down against him, pillowing her head on his chest. 

“I don’t know how good a student I’ll be,” she says. “I’m just so used to… I always try to go it alone, Mulder. I always have. Even when I’ve been with someone, even when it’s someone I love… I’ve never known how to let them take care of me. It’s always made me feel _less_ than what I am.” She looks up at him, and he can see her eyes glittering in the darkness. “Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, it does,” he says. “But see, that’s the thing, Scully: you never need to worry about that with me, because I could never see you as less than what you are. You don’t have to be scared that I’m going to think less of you, because it’s just not going to happen. If it were me going through this, I’d be curled in the fetal position underneath my coffee table by now.” He squeezes her- just slightly, mindful of the pain she’s likely in- and kisses the top of her head. “You amaze me every day, Scully. Don’t ever, ever think that I’m going to look down on you for needing my help.”

He thinks, for a moment, about saying the words, telling her what she already knows… but this is not the time. For all her bravery against the evils of the world, when it comes to matters of the heart, Mulder has known for some time that Scully is not unlike a small, scared animal. She must be approached slowly if there is any hope of keeping her from running. So Mulder contents himself with holding her close until they both fall asleep, and he tries not to be too disappointed when she’s gone by morning.

 

————————-

 

Scully’s relieved, certainly, when Nathaniel Teager is taken down at the rededication of the Vietnam Memorial without anyone else being killed. 

She’s even more relieved that Teager had managed to disappear from the sight of so many other agents, just as he’d disappeared from hers as they’d tried to get General Bloch to get out of his jeep so that they could escort him to safety. Knowing that it’s not just her who so easily lost sight of him is bizarrely reassuring… because there’s another angle to the case, one she’s not so willing to discuss with Mulder. Her initial thought, when Teager had vanished right before her eyes, had involved blind spots- but not the sort Mulder suspects Teager is taking advantage of.

Scully’s known, since her diagnosis, that the chance is there. It’s there, and it gets more likely the longer she’s sick, the larger the tumor grows, the closer it gets to her optical nerve.

At some point, there is a very good chance that Scully’s cancer will render her blind.

For someone who dreads relying on anyone else, ever, the idea of blindness is not something she likes contemplating. It’s one thing to go to Mulder for a quick hug when she’s feeling overwhelmed, even to crawl into his motel bed in the middle of the night when she can’t sleep… but to need his help just to cross the parking lot? Scratch that- to need him to chauffeur her around? To help her find her way through her own apartment as she adjusts to living in total darkness? She doesn’t want to contemplate it.

She’s doing her very best to put the entire disturbing idea out of her mind on Friday morning when Mulder arrives in the office. He raises her eyes at the sight of her breakfast: a package of pink sno-balls from the basement vending machine.

“You’ve come a long way from yogurt and salads without dressing, Scully,” he comments.

“Shut up, Mulder,” she says, but it’s good-natured enough. “I noticed earlier this week that some of this processed junk, somehow, doesn’t get that metallic taste everything else does.” She sighs and flips the package over, reading the ingredients. “Probably because it’s not technically food. But I was hungry, for once, and I wanted to take advantage of the feeling before it went away.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me, Scully,” he says, grinning. “I had frosted Pop-Tarts for breakfast, and I can’t claim any excuse, aside from immaturity.” She smiles and holds up the second sno-ball.

“You want?” He shakes his head.

“If you’ve found something you can eat, I’m not taking any of it away from you,” he says.

“I’d better enjoy it while it lasts,” Scully says with a heavy sigh. “I’ve got chemo today.” She eyes him critically. “You’ll be okay here on your own? I need to leave at two.”

“I think I can manage the last three hours of the workday without burning anything down, Scully,” he says. She gives him a look that suggests she doesn’t believe him, but before he can defend himself further, the phone rings. He answers it. “Mulder.” Pause. “Oh, hey, Mrs. Scully. Yeah, Dana’s right here. Hang on.” He hands the receiver to Scully.

“Hi Mom, everything okay?”

“Dana, Honey,” says Maggie, her voice hoarse, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for me to drive you to the doctor’s today. I’ve got bronchitis.”

“Mom, you sound awful,” says Scully. “Don’t worry about it, okay? I’ll make other arrangements.”

“Are you sure?” Maggie asks. “I don’t want you driving yourself, Dana. You'll be much too tired for that.”

“I won’t, Mom, I promise. Get some rest and feel better, okay?”

Mulder looks concerned when she gets off the phone. “Is your mom okay?” he asks.

“She’s got bronchitis,” Scully says. “She can’t drive me to chemo today. With my immune system suppressed, being in a car with someone who’s sick isn’t the best idea.”

“How’re you getting there, then?” Scully shrugs.

“I took a cab here today. I’ll take one to the hospital and another home.”

“Scully, don’t be ridiculous,” says Mulder. “I’ll take you.”

“Mulder, no, you don’t need to do that,” says Scully. “It’s no problem for me to take a cab, there’s no reason-“

“Scully,” Mulder says, “is this what you meant by not knowing how to need people?” Scully sighs. 

“Fine,” she says. “Just this once. I’m sure my mom will be able to drive me next week.” She crumples up the wrapper from her sno-balls and throws it in the trash. “Mom and I were supposed to have dinner for my birthday this Tuesday. I guess we’re going to be postponing that.” She swivels her chair to face Mulder- and catches him with the strangest look on his face. “You okay, Mulder?” she asks. He gives a quick shake of his head.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says. She grins.

“Careful, Mulder,” she says. “That’s my line.”


	6. Chapter 6

Although Scully allows Mulder to drive her to her treatment, she makes him stay in the waiting room, and though she lets him get her settled at home with everything she might need close at hand, she won't let him stay over, not even on the couch. He makes sure both her cell phone and her cordless handset are next to her, leaving them on the other pillow where he'd much rather rest his head. She waves him away sleepily, so tired she can't even protest when he places a gentle kiss on her forehead, though her frown makes it perfectly clear that she _would_ protest, if she had the strength. 

On Sunday evening, Mulder sets about making plans for Tuesday. He calls the Headless Woman, a pub not far from work or from her apartment, figuring that if she's tired, it won't be a huge hassle to get there, and if she gets sick during dinner, getting home will be quick and easy. 

He frets for a moment about what to do about dessert. If he recalls correctly, the Headless Woman is heavy on ice creams and bread puddings, things he doubts Scully's sensitive stomach will be able to tolerate. He thinks back to Friday morning, watching her tuck into her vending machine breakfast, marveling at the idea of mega-health-conscious Scully eating anything that had ever come out of a Hostess factory... and he has an idea.

"What's your policy on bringing outside food in?" he asks. "We'll be celebrating my friend's birthday, and she's got... that is... she can really only eat certain things. If I brought a little cake, could you guys stick a candle in it for her?"

"Sure, we can do that," the hostess tells him. "Just give it to whoever shows you to your seats. I'll make a note on your reservation." Mulder thanks her and hangs up, checking "reservation" off of his mental to-do list. He's taken care of the restaurant, he's adjusted their schedule so that there's no way they'll be out of town on Tuesday, and he's gone shopping for a gift- gifts, actually. They're sitting on his coffee table in their box, perfectly wrapped by the salesgirl at Macy's this past Saturday.

Looking at the box now, Mulder frowns. He's planning on giving Scully her gift at dinner, in case she's too tired to do anything but go home and sleep when they're done eating... but he also wants it to be a surprise, his acknowledging her birthday when he's never done anything for it before. If he's carrying a large, silver-wrapped package into the restaurant, it's not going to be much of a surprise when the waiters bring out her cake.

What Mulder needs is something small, a little gift he can bring to the restaurant, tucked into his pocket until it's time to give it to her. It's too late to run out and buy something now- the shops are closed- and there's no guarantee he'll have time after work tomorrow. He stands and wanders around his apartment, peering on shelves and opening drawers, looking for something, some little trinket he can box up and give her. As he rummages through the contents of his desk, his gaze falls on the keys to his bank safe deposit box. The Apollo Eleven keychain the keys are on makes him think back to their first year together, their trip to NASA, the way she'd smiled at his boyish excitement, her gentle teasing that had warmed him from head to toe. His trust in her had already been strong, his affection for her even stronger.

The keychain has a lot of meaning for him, and he’s pretty sure Scully will share his sentiments.

He twists the keys off the keychain and tosses them back into the drawer. In another corner of his desk, he finds an empty little gift box that had likely once held something he'd given Diana, but now only holds spare paper clips. He puts the keychain inside and trims just enough ribbon off of the wrapped gift on his coffee table to tie the little box closed.

Satisfied, Mulder flops back onto his couch. He's got her gifts, he's made the reservation, and their work schedule is cleared. Nothing is going to interrupt this birthday dinner.

 

\------------------

 

It's almost becoming a habit with them.

Scully won't allow Mulder into her bed at home, but when they're on the road, she can't seem to stop herself from slipping into his room whenever she's having a hard time sleeping... which is most nights, really. No matter how exhausted she is, she can't seem to sleep through the night, and she wakes up within an hour of going to bed. She also can't seem to stop herself, when it happens, from slipping into Mulder's motel room and curling up next to him. 

Mulder doesn't seem to mind.

Tonight, for the first time, she's gone so far as to pull back the blankets and actually crawl _into_ bed with him, instead of just lying on top of the bedspread. Mulder's clearly been expecting her- he's awake- and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close. 

"You okay, Scully?" he murmurs, and she nods. He runs his fingers over the soft cotton covering her back. "Glad to see you like my shirt." She smiles.

"Sorry," she says. "I can give it back if you want."

"Only if you're planning on giving it back right this second," he says. She can hear the suggestiveness in his voice, and even though she knows he's teasing, she's glad it's too dark for him to see her blushing. "Nah," he says, after a moment, "you keep it as long as you want. It looks better on you, anyway." They lie there in silence for awhile, Mulder continuing to stroke her back.

"Thank you for my birthday dinner, Mulder," Scully says, finally. 

"No problem," he answers. "I'm just sorry it got interrupted before you got a chance to eat your cake."

"At least I got to blow out the candle," she says.

"Yeah," he agrees, softly. "What'd you wish for?" _Time_ , she thinks to herself. _More time. More moments like this, you and me, sitting together, sharing a meal, nowhere to rush off to, nothing to distract us from each other._ But of course it hadn't worked; they'd been distracted immediately. And time, she's well aware, is running out.

"Won't come true if I tell you," she says. He squeezes her tighter.

"Don't tell me, then," he whispers in her ear, and she shivers. "Cold?" She shakes her head, but still, he rubs his hand up and down her arm, then draws her as close to himself as he can. So close that-

"Mulder?"

"Sorry," he says. "I'm not trying to start anything, I promise." He tries to shift his lower half away from her. She stops him with a hand at his hip.

"It's okay," she says. "It's a perfectly natural response to stimulus." He laughs shortly.

"Oh, Dr. Scully, I think you know full well that's not all it is," he says. He rolls onto his back, keeping his arms around her so that she's tucked against his side now, no longer in contact with his erection. "Better?" She nods. Mulder looks down at her, and in the dim light from the window, she can see he's frowning.

"What's wrong?"

"We never talked about it," he says quietly. "That night, in December. We both just pretended it never happened. Why?"

"I guess... we didn't want it to be awkward," says Scully. "We were drunk, and neither of us was in a very good frame of mind."

"Are you saying you never would have done that sober?" Mulder asks. Scully bites her lip and looks down, not meeting his eyes. They should not be talking about this, she thinks. Especially not now, lying in bed, with her wearing his t-shirt and him sporting a hard-on she can see right through the blankets and bedspread.

Would she have done it sober? She's not sure.

Had she wanted to? Many, many times.

"I don't know, Mulder," she says, and it's as close to the truth as she's willing to come right now. He seems willing enough to accept it.

"Can you?" he asks, his voice curious. "I mean, with the treatments and everything, are you allowed to-"

"Yeah," she says. "I mean... in theory, yes. In practice...." She sighs. "Even just thinking about it is exhausting." She glances up at him. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason," he says. "Just wondering." He is absolutely not telling the truth, but that's not a conversation she's willing to have at the moment.

"We should sleep," she says quietly. He nods.

"We should." He bends down and kisses her forehead, in what she's beginning to think of as "his" spot. "Goodnight, Scully." She looks up at him... and very quickly, but very gently, presses her lips to his.

"Goodnight, Mulder."

 

\------------------

 

By the time they've flown from New York back down to D.C. and driven to Scully's apartment, Mulder can tell that Scully's on her last leg. She'd dozed for most of the flight and all of the car ride, and he has to shake her awake when they pull up in front of her building. "Come on," he says. "I'll get your bag." While she's climbing out of the car, he goes around to the trunk, and using the open lid to shield himself from sight, slips her wrapped birthday present into her overnight bag. He shuts the trunk and escorts her upstairs.

"You didn't need to come up, Mulder," she says, as he unlocks and opens her door for her.

"I know," he says. He walks ahead of her, into her bedroom, and slings the bag onto her bed. She follows him. "Listen, Scully, about the keychain-"

"It was a very sweet gift, Mulder," she says. "Regardless of whether or not it had the meaning to you that I read into it, it was very-"

"Sam gave it to me." Scully falls immediately silent, her formerly-sleepy eyes open wide. "For my birthday. When I was twelve." 

"Mulder...."

"She asked my dad to get it for her so that she could give it to me. It was the last gift I ever got from her." Scully immediately digs the keychain out of her pocket and tries to give it back to him.

"I can't take it, then, Mulder," she protests. "That's too special to give to me."

"Nothing's too special to give to you, Scully," he says. "I want you to have it. Partly because of all the reasons you said yourself... and partly because I would never have the strength to keep on searching for her if it weren't for you, if you weren't beside me." She swallows hard, and from across the room, he can see the tears gathering in her eyes. "Hang on, though," he says, turning back to her carry-on. "There's more."

"More?" Scully's voice has taken on a strangled quality.

"I'd planned on asking you to hang out here and watch movies after your birthday dinner," he says. He wrestles the wrapped gift, now slightly squashed, out of her bag, and hands it to her. "I had this in my trunk so I could surprise you with it." She takes the box, eyebrows raised.

"Did you wrap this?" she asks.

"Nope, the girl in the shop did," he answers truthfully. "Perfect corners and curling ribbon aren't really skills that have much use in the X-Files." Scully laughs weakly and crosses to stand next to him, placing the gift on the bed and ripping off the paper. She lifts the lid off of the box to reveal three sets of pajamas, all in the long-sleeved button-down style he knows she prefers, in maroon, red, and chocolate brown. All easily machine washable- he'd asked the salesgirl specifically. Mulder is pretty sure she and her co-workers probably had a long discussion in the break room about the strange man who’d asked for pajamas that wouldn’t be ruined by lots of blood. "I'm pretty sure they're the right size," he says, cautiously- she's staring down at them, silent, her expression unreadable. "Let me know if they're not and I can-" Scully cuts him off by turning to him and hugging him fiercely, squeezing him so tightly that it almost hurts his ribs.

"Mulder," she croaks, and now she really _is_ crying. He holds her, stroking her hair tenderly. She pulls back just as quickly as she’d embraced him, seizes his face in her hands, and kisses him. She’s let go and buried her face in his chest again before he can react.

"You can still keep my Knicks shirt, though," he says, slightly dazed. "Like I said, it looks better on you than on me."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that the episode subtitles claim that an entire month goes by between Mulder catching Eddie Van Blundht in Scully's apartment and their visit with him in prison, but that doesn't work for me, so we're just gonna ignore it, okay? Okay.

Thinking about it, Scully realizes that Mulder is right: they don't talk, _really_ talk, about anything except the work... and, lately, about their inability to talk. Or her inability to talk, at any rate. Mulder's been trying to help her overcome her reluctance to share more of herself with him for months, which, she supposes, explains him showing up here with a bottle of wine on a Friday night. She'd been initially reluctant to let him in- it's her first free Friday in months, now that her treatment cycle is over and the waiting game has begun. But really, she'd decided, an evening with Mulder would, at the very least, help keep her mind occupied, help keep her from worrying about her appointment on Monday afternoon, when scans and blood tests will determine what effect- if any- the hell she's put her body through has had on her cancer.

So she'd let him in, she'd opened the wine he'd brought, she'd sat on the couch with him, and between the two of them, they'd finished the entire bottle of wine. As she's drinking her final glass, it occurs to Scully that the last time she'd had alcohol had been the night in Philadelphia with Ed Jerse. She figures that abstinence, combined with the twenty pounds she's lost since beginning treatment, explains why she's feeling considerably more tipsy than she really should be off of half a bottle of wine. And that, in turn, explains why she ends up telling Mulder that ridiculous story about her high school prom.

It doesn't, though, explain what Mulder is doing now. He's got at least eighty pounds on her; there's no way he's completely drunk off of half a bottle of wine, and she doesn't _think_ he'd been drinking before he'd shown up at her door.

So what's he doing trying to kiss her?

Yes, they've exchanged an occasional kiss in the past month or so, but he's mostly left it up to her to initiate them, respecting her need to determine the distance between them. And trying to kiss her when she's been drinking? She's half-tempted to shove him off of her and onto the floor.

But at the same time....

He's leaning over her, his arm planted firmly between her thighs, and her entire body is humming from his proximity. He's hovering, his lips an inch from hers, waiting for her to come to him, giving her the option to meet him, or not... and suddenly, she wants nothing more than to slip her fingers into his hair and pull him down on her, to slide back slightly and grind his forearm into the apex of her thighs, to lie under him and give her couch the same treatment they'd given his in December. She's just about made up her mind to do just that, when her apartment door is flung open, and Scully becomes immediately terrified that the wine has had some sort of horrible reaction with the chemotherapy drugs leftover in her system, because why _else_ should Mulder be both sitting on her couch and standing in her doorway?

By the time Eddie van Blundht has been arrested and led downstairs to a waiting squad car, Scully has sobered up considerably. In the deafening silence left behind when the police leave, Mulder stands in Scully's living room, hands in his pockets, not looking at her. The full import of what's just happened, what _almost_ happened, begins to sink in. If Mulder had arrived any later, she would most likely have had sex with a man she doesn't know, a man whose behavior she finds abhorrent. The sense of violation is acute. 

Suddenly, Scully feels incredibly nauseous. Without a word to Mulder, she turns and runs to the bathroom, reaching the toilet just in time. As most of the wine she's imbibed makes a speedy exit, she's struck by the irony that, even though her treatment cycle is over, she's _still_ spending her Friday night vomiting.

She's finished, flushed, and is splashing some cold water on her face when she realizes that something else is different about tonight. If she'd just gotten sick following chemo, by now, Mulder would be standing in the bathroom doorway, holding out a glass of cool, not cold, water, having used the time she'd been in the bathroom to turn down her bed and get out a pair of pajamas for her to wear. But when she stands up and turns away from the sink, the bathroom doorway is empty, and so is her bedroom.

Mulder is standing in her living room, exactly where she'd left him, staring silently at her couch, his expression unreadable. He doesn't look up when she enters.

"Mulder?" she asks tentatively. "You okay?" He nods, but still doesn't look at her. He doesn't ask if _she's_ okay, which irks her.

"You really couldn't tell he wasn't me?" is all he says.

"No, I couldn't," she says. "I mean... I did think it was a little bit out of the ordinary for you to show up here on a Friday, when there's no work to do, and I don't have treatment, but...." She swallows. She doesn't really want to address this tonight, but he's not leaving her much of a choice. "We do spend more time together these days, and I just figured you'd wanted to see me." Mulder nods shortly.

"Well... if you're all right, I'm gonna go," he says, in a clipped voice that pricks at her. She takes a step towards him.

"Mulder, listen-"

"I'll see you Monday, Scully," he says, and turns and leaves without looking at her.

She doesn't hear from him all weekend.

 

\----------------

 

"I just think it's funny. I was born a loser, but you're one by choice."

Scully closes her eyes at Eddie's words. On the TV screen, Mulder's response is a thorough non-reaction, but she knows that those words are going to burrow inside of him and worry away at him for a long time. The conversation is over moments later, and then she and Mulder are walking out together.

 _I'm not in the mood to comfort him_ , Scully thinks, feeling slightly ashamed of herself. But most, if not all, of her energy is focused on getting through the morning, getting through this visit and then heading back to the office so that she can get in her car and drive to her doctor's appointment... where she will find out, definitively, whether her treatments have bought her more time.

Still, though... she hates to see him upset, even if he's doing his best to hide it.

"I don't imagine you need to be told this, Mulder, but you're not a loser." He glances at her, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, but I'm no Eddie Van Blundht, either, am I?" He strides ahead of her, out of the prison and into the parking lot. They slide into their car, Mulder behind the wheel. He puts the keys in the ignition, but before he can turn the car on, Scully reaches out and stops him. He frowns at her, confused.

"Mulder, what exactly is it that you thought you saw when you burst into my apartment on Friday night?" she asks. He snorts.

"What I _thought_ I saw? Scully, I _know_ what I saw. I saw you, about to get down and dirty with Van Blundht."

"No, Mulder, you didn't," she says. "What you saw was me, about to kiss what I _thought_ was you."

"And how could you have thought that?" Mulder demands. "How could you have been around him for an entire day and not realized it wasn't me?"

"For one thing, Mulder, sudden and inexplicably bizarre behavior isn't exactly out of the ordinary for you," Scully retorts. "And for another thing, I sort of have a lot on my mind right now, which I'm sure you're well aware of. This past week, anytime I haven't been consumed by work, I've been thinking about what I'll find out this afternoon." Mulder suddenly goes pale, and she realizes: he'd forgotten her appointment. But between being knocked out and locked up by Van Blundht, and then having his face stolen, she supposes he's been a bit preoccupied, as well. She sighs. "The point is, Mulder, that _I thought it was you._ That's what you should be focusing on. I thought it was _you_ about to kiss me, and _that's_ why I was about to let him." She reaches across the console and lays her fingers along his chin, gently turning him to look at her. "What does that tell you?" Mulder swallows.

"That maybe I should start showing up at your place with wine?"

"That would be a start," Scully whispers, and kisses him deeply.

 

\---------------

 

Scully sits in the oncologist's private office, studying the books on the shelves behind his desk, searching for titles she has in her own collection at home, trying desperately not to think about what her tests have shown.

When Dr. Fitzgerald finally enters and sits at his desk, his face is unreadable... and Scully knows before he tells her. If it had been good news, he'd be smiling.

"I'm sorry, Dana," he says, and her stomach clenches. "The treatment does not appear to have been successful." Scully takes a moment, just a moment, to compose herself. She closes her eyes, refusing to entertain the idea of even a single tear escaping, and swallows. Her hands, in her lap, clench into fists, and she digs her fingernails into her palms and focuses on the pinpricks of pain, trying to keep herself calm, to keep herself present.

It's all been for nothing. These weeks of pain, of sickness, of not being able to eat, of dropping weight, have been for nothing.

"The tumor is the same size?" she asks... and the doctor shakes his head.

"It's grown by about fifteen percent," he says. "With the direction of its growth, you should be experiencing some deficiencies in your olfactory systems. Have you noticed anything?" She nods.

"Foods taste strange, and my sense of smell has been diminished," she confesses, "but I assumed it was just a side effect of the chemo."

"Those symptoms are likely to become more pronounced as the tumor grows," Fitzgerald says. "But the good news is that for now, your optic nerve is still untouched. With many patients, that's not the case, and blindness is a real concern by this point." Scully nods. It _is_ good news, he's right; if she's going to lose some of her senses, it's better she start with the ones that aren't as necessary for an FBI agent to have intact.

"What are my options at this point?" she asks.

"There are clinical trials," says Fitzgerald, "though I don't know of anything truly promising for your particular cancer at this time, to be honest." She nods. "And you also have the option of palliative chemotherapy. Instead of pairing the chemo with radiation and with other drugs, we would administer the Taxol you've been receiving on its own, in an attempt to control the tumor's growth, and to alleviate and prevent the worsening of your symptoms. It would be a lower dose than you've been receiving, so the side effects would likely be less severe."

"So we'd just be prolonging the inevitable," says Scully, almost to herself. Dr. Fitzgerald seems reluctant to agree with her assessment... but she doesn't need him to. She knows what he's telling her.

More drugs, more nausea, more vomiting, more bone pain and sleepless nights... all without hope of a cure.

"I think... I need some time to think about this," says Scully, and Dr. Fitzgerald nods in agreement.

"Take a few days," he says. "Talk to your family and weigh your options."

But Scully knows, as she leaves the office, that this is a decision she will make alone.

 

\----------------

 

When Scully arrives back at her apartment, Mulder's already waiting in her hallway, even though it's only four o'clock and the workday, for him, isn't technically over with.

He's holding a bottle of wine.

Scully doesn't know whether to smile or cry. A few hours ago, she would have been touched by this, but now? _You have to tell him what the doctor said_ , she reminds herself sternly. _Before anything happens._

"Shouldn't you still be at work, Mulder?" she asks him, shouldering past to unlock her apartment door. Mulder follows her inside.

"I couldn't focus," he says. "And Skinner's out in California overseeing some VCU fuck-up, so he's not about to wander down to the basement and discover I'm missing."

"Sometimes I forget we're not Skinner's only responsibility," comments Scully, as she shrugs out of her coat and hangs it up. Mulder follows suit. "We do seem to take up a disproportionate amount of his time and energy."

"Yeah, I think that's mostly me," says Mulder. Scully can't suppress a smile.

"I'm not disagreeing," she says. She takes the wine bottle from him and sets it on the kitchen counter. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure?" she asks.

"Well, for one thing, I wanted to know what your doctor had to say," Mulder says. Scully shrugs.

"We went over my treatment options going forward," she says. "This first round hasn't produced the results he wanted to see, so we may do another round." It's not a lie, not exactly, and she's not ready to tell him everything yet, not until she's made her decision. Mulder opens his mouth to ask something, probably for more information she's not willing to give, so she forestalls him. "What's the other thing?" He frowns.

"What other thing?"

"You said finding out about what my doctor said was one thing you came over for. What's the other thing?"

"The other thing...." He blushes slightly. "In the car this morning, Scully. What was that?" She arches an eyebrow.

"I would have thought that's fairly obvious," she says. "I kissed you."

"Yeah, I know _that_ , Scully, but... what does it mean?" He steps closer to her. "You kissed me on your birthday, and a couple of days after that, and then this morning...." She's finding it hard to keep looking him in the eye, but she forces herself to hold his gaze. "What do you want, Scully?" _You_ , she thinks, but she can't quite make her mouth form the word. "Because I know what _I_ want... and if we feel the same, then...." He reaches for her hand, twining their fingers together, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. "I don't think we should waste anymore time." She lets him draw her up against him, but when he leans down to her, she stops him.

"I'm not sure what I want yet, Mulder," she says. "Or maybe that's not it. Maybe... I'm not quite sure what I'm ready for just yet. But this...." She stretches up and kisses him, once, sweetly and slowly. "This is a good start, I think."

That night, for the first time, she lets him stay even though she's not sick, welcomes him into her bed, and though they don't do much besides kiss once or twice more before going to sleep, it's the most comfortable she's felt in a long time. 

In the morning, before she leaves for work, Scully makes an appointment for her first round of palliative chemo.

She's not ready to leave him yet. Not before she finds the words to tell him how she feels... and not before she finds the words to tell him goodbye.


	8. Chapter 8

Mulder follows Skinner out of the ballistics lab and down the hall, staying back as they take the stairs to the parking garage. Mulder's blood is boiling, his rage at his AD simmering just below the surface. He stays on Skinner's tail through the garage, and when Skinner moves to unlock his car, Mulder grabs his shoulder and forcibly turns the larger man to face him.

"You said," growls Mulder, glowering at Skinner, "to find another way. You refused to entertain even the _thought_ of me going to Cancer Man, of my trying to get a cure for Scully from him." Skinner remains impassive. "You told me that I 'can't ask the truth of a man who trades in lies.'"

"I know what I said, Agent Mulder," snarls Skinner, jerking back out of Mulder's grasp. "I couldn't condone one of my agents getting mixed up in whatever corruption that man is selling."

"But it's all right for you, somehow?"

"No, it's not all right for me, either, Mulder, but at least it spares you from being dragged down to his level. The price he asks of you may very well turn out to be more than you're willing to pay." Mulder shakes his head.

"Not possible," he states emphatically. "Not if it means Scully lives." Skinner fixes Mulder with a steely glare.

"He could ask anything of you," says Skinner. "Your reputation. Your freedom. Your _life_." He shakes his head. "I can't let you do that, Mulder."

"So it's all right for you, but not for me?" Mulder demands. "I don't buy that."

" _Think_ for a minute, Mulder," says Skinner. "Put your all-consuming need for revenge aside for one minute and just _think_. What happens to Scully, if you're out of the picture? If you're in jail, or dead, who protects her? I can only do so much from behind the scenes. You, you can be out in the open searching for a cure, even if whatever I've been promised fails."

"It should still be me," says Mulder stubbornly. Skinner's eyes flash dangerously.

"Get over yourself, Mulder," he spits. "You do not have the monopoly on caring about Agent Scully and what happens to her." Mulder says nothing, only glares at Skinner a moment longer.

"It still should've been me," he insists. "I got her into this. I should be the one to get her out again." He turns and strides away. "I hope it was worth it," he calls over his shoulder.

Skinner does not respond.

 

\--------------

 

He fucked up.

He knows it the moment the words leave his mouth, the moment she says she's going home and turns and strides down the hallway away from him. He can see it in her face: he's hurt her. Accusing her of working against him? What the hell was he _thinking_? Sure, he'd been pissed to find out she'd seen the specter of the victim, or the ghost, or whatever the hell it was, but this is _Scully_. Of _course_ she's not going to own up to it right away, not when she can't find a reasonable scientific explanation for it.

Mulder plods slowly outside into the parking lot, making his way back to his car. But before he can even remember where he'd parked, he spies Scully's car, still in its spot. He frowns. Didn't she say she was going home? And she definitely hadn't looked as though she'd been planning to linger. As he gets closer, he can see her, sitting in the drivers seat. Her hands are over her face, and her shoulders are shaking convulsively. She's sobbing.

Yup, he fucked up. Big time.

For half a second, a tiny part of him is tempted to just get into his car and drive, just leave her here. She'll be upset that he's seen her crying, seen her vulnerable, and she'll still be (rightfully) angry with him for what he'd said minutes earlier. He's going to have to work extra-hard to overcome all of that, to get her to open up to him. Maybe it's better to give her the night to get past it, to get herself together again. She'll probably be much more ready to talk to him in the morning... going home would be the infinitely easier option.

He crosses to her car and taps on the driver's side window.

Scully jumps about a foot in the air and stares up at him with red-rimmed, watery eyes. He motions for her to open the door, and after a moment, she does.

"Get in the other side," he says firmly. "I'm driving you home." She shakes her head.

"Mulder, I don't need-"

"Just do it, Scully. Please?" She purses her lips, but complies. She climbs out and walks around to the passenger side, sliding into the seat as Mulder gets behind the wheel. He says nothing as he starts the car and pulls out of the lot, but he can't help noticing that she keeps glancing at the rearview mirror, as though she's terrified they're being followed.

"What?" he demands, finally, as they pull up in front of her building and she glances up at the mirror for the seventh time. She jumps and looks at him guiltily. "What do you keep looking for?" She bites her lip and looks out the window, but says nothing. "Scully?" She turns to him, and there are tears in her eyes.

"Back there, in the parking lot... when I first got into the car...." She closes her eyes and shudders. "I saw Harold Spuller in the backseat." Mulder's breath catches in his throat. He doesn't want to believe it any more than Scully had, not if it means what it meant for all the others before her.

"Scully," he whispers, reaching for her hand. Her eyes open, and she fixes him with an unreadable gaze.

"Why don't you come up, Mulder?" she suggests. "I think we need to talk." Heart in his throat, Mulder nods.

Upstairs, Scully takes his coat and hangs it up alongside her own, then stands there in her living room, looking entirely lost and unsure of where to begin.

"Can I, um... can I get you anything?" she asks, twisting her hands in front of her. "Something to drink? I can make us some tea, or some coffee, or-" Mulder crosses to her.

"Scully," he says softly, taking her hands in his and stopping their motion, "what is it?" She takes a deep breath, readying herself. Her words come out in a rush.

"I'm not fine, Mulder," she says. "My latest round of blood tests showed cancer cells in my bloodstream." Mulder goes completely still. His body just barely remembers to keep breathing without his involvement; he cannot focus on anything but her face.

"But that means-"

"The tumor has metastasized."

He's not conscious of sinking down onto the couch, but he must have, because now Scully's sitting down next to him. She's still holding his hands, but where a moment ago, he'd been trying to comfort her, she's now trying to soothe him, trying to gentle the shock of her words by softly rubbing her thumbs over the backs of his hands. His mind scrambles, frantically searching for a reason this can't be true.

"What about the chemo?" She shakes her head.

"It's only been prolonging the inevitable," she says. "And in any case... I've put a stop to it. There's no point, not anymore." His eyes widen.

"Scully, you can't," he says. 

"I can and I have," she says firmly. "I don't have much time left, Mulder. I'm not going to spend it sick from a treatment that has no hope of curing me." Mulder doesn't want to ask the question. He doesn't want to know... but he _has_ to.

"How much time?" he whispers. Scully breaks his gaze, looking down.

"A matter of weeks, most likely," she says.

Mulder just barely has the wherewithal to appreciate the juxtaposition of Scully being the one to rub _his_ back as he's noisily sick in her toilet. She knows all his best moves: the cold washcloth on the back of the neck, gentle circular stroking of his shoulders, the cool- not cold- glass of water when he's finally finished, the proffered toothbrush, already loaded with toothpaste. Once he's rinsed and spit, she leads him gently by the arm, sitting him on the edge of her bed.

"Are you all right?" she asks, sitting next to him and brushing his hair back from his sweaty forehead.

"Am _I_ all right?" He shakes his head in amazement. "Scully, I should be asking _you_ that question." She waves her hand dismissively.

"Mulder, I'm-"

" _Don't_ say you're fine, Scully," he snarls, and she jerks her hand back, startled. "Don't you _dare_ tell me you're fine."

"But I am, Mulder," she argues. "Without the chemo, I feel better than I have in months. I have some headaches, yes, and some bone pain that's going to get worse as time goes on, but my doctor finally found a painkiller that I can tolerate." She reaches out and takes his hand again, and he doesn't fight her. "So for the time being, I'm as close to 'fine' as I'm going to get." She reaches up and pulls his head down. For a moment he thinks she's going to kiss him... but no, she's only resting her forehead against his, stroking the fine hairs at the back of his neck. After a moment, she draws back and takes a deep breath. 

"Mulder," she says, looking him in the eyes, "I'm dying." Just hearing the words is too much, far too much for him to handle, and he shakes his head vehemently, squeezing his eyes shut. He feels her hands at the sides of his face, stilling his motion. "Yes," she says firmly. "The cancer is in my bloodstream now, and that means that sometime soon, my organs are going to begin to shut down. I've accepted it, Mulder. I need you to accept it, too." She is asking too much of him. He's always thought he'd never be able to deny her anything she asked of him, but this? He can't do it. He's never been able to give up on even the smallest of things in his life... and Scully absolutely the biggest thing in his life these days. His _whole_ life, it sometimes seems.

"I can't, Scully," he says, his voice breaking. "I don't know how to accept something like this."

"I need you to," she insists, "because when I'm gone- Mulder, _look at me_ \- when I'm gone, you need to keep going. You need to find the bastards responsible and bring them to justice." She strokes his face tenderly. "Nobody else will. Nobody else _can_. I need you to do this for me." The intensity in her eyes is blinding, almost impossible to look away from... but he has to. He's about to lie to her, and he knows by now that he can't look her in the eyes and tell her anything but the truth. He drops his head, as though in defeat.

"I'll do my best, Scully," he says. It's a partial truth: he's going to do his best, sure, but not to prepare to lose her. She doesn't know about Skinner, has no idea that he may have tried to make a deal to save her life. Mulder doesn't know if it will pan out, has no idea whether it will come to anything or not... but until then, he's not giving up hope. And even if it's a bust, if the smoking man offers no help whatsoever, Mulder will not give up. He's going to do his best to find a cure for her, no matter what.

Scully seems satisfied enough with his answer. She lets out her breath, relaxing her shoulders, and leans into him. He wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her hair, trying desperately not to cry.

"I have one other thing I'd like you to do for me, Mulder," she says into his shoulder.

"Name it." Scully doesn't speak. Instead, she turns her face into his neck, pressing a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to the skin just behind his ear. Mulder shivers. "Scully?"

"I don't know how much longer I'll be able to, Mulder," she whispers, taking his earlobe in her mouth, then letting it go, breathing onto it as she speaks. "I don't know how much longer until I'm too tired, until I'm in too much pain. I want this with you- I want this for us- before it's too late." She slides her fingers into the hair at the back of his head and kisses along his jawline until she reaches his mouth. "Make love to me, Mulder," she whispers, and kisses him.

It crosses Mulder's mind that he should say no, that he doesn't want her to take him into her bed just because she thinks it's now or never. But even in the midst of his arousal, amidst the hard, hot surge of _want_ that courses through him as she slips her tongue into his mouth, he's aware that she's right. Whether he wants to accept it or not, this very well _could_ be their only chance. He pulls her against himself, deepening the kiss, trying not to squeeze too hard, mindful of the aches he knows sometimes plague her. She lies back on her bed, pulling him down with her.

Their time might be running out, but he's determined to take this as slowly as possible. Mulder has decided that if there's even a slight chance this could be the last time, he's going to savor every second even if it kills him.

Her very first moan as he kisses the hollow of her throat, though, nearly undoes his resolve.

Steeling himself, mastering his impulses as best he can, he unbuttons her blouse, exposing her pale skin, placing a kiss along her sternum as each button is released from its mooring. He spreads the shirt open, determinedly ignoring her prominent ribs, feeling her eyes on him as he undoes the front clasp on her bra. When he has her naked from the waist up, he draws back and pauses, gazing down at her. She lifts her hands to cover herself, but he stops her.

"Don't," he murmurs. "Please. I barely got to see last time." She blushes.

"I'm so thin, Mulder," she protests. "There's nothing _to_ look at." He shakes his head and reaches out to caress her breast.

"There's you, Scully," he says, "and you're beautiful." Her face melts into a smile, and she pulls him down to kiss him. She tugs at his shirt.

"This needs to come off," she insists. "Now."

"Bossy," he smiles, as he yanks off his tie and unbuttons his dress shirt.

"Are you surprised?" she asks.

"Of course not." He lowers himself over her again, kissing her and glorying in the incredible feel of their naked skin pressed together. He kisses down her neck again, down her sternum, pauses briefly to kiss each breast in turn, then continues down her stomach. He pauses with his mouth at her belly button as he unbuttons her pants, then closes his mouth carefully over her hipbone. She gasps and twists away.

"Mulder, you don't have to-"

"I want to, Scully," he says. She looks unconvinced. "In the interest of full disclosure, I... uh... I don't know how long I'm gonna last here, and I don't want to leave you hanging." He bends his head and kisses her just above the edge of her panties. "I want this to be good for you," he murmurs. She bites her lip, indecisive... but finally, she nods. She lifts her hips enough for him to slide her pants and underwear down.

It doesn't take long. In fact, when Scully arches her back and digs her fingernails into his scalp, he's sorry he hasn't had more time to savor her. But she's twisting away from him, too sensitive for further contact, and he reluctantly backs off. He stands long enough to shed his pants and boxers, then crawls slowly back up her body, kissing along her hips, her ribs, her breasts, her shoulders, and her neck, settling between her thighs. He kisses her long and slow, holding himself back, waiting for her to be ready for him... which, apparently, she is, because she reaches down between them and takes him in her hand. He nearly loses it immediately.

"Wait, Scully," he gasps. "Just wait." She lets go, laying her hands along his hips instead, and he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, gaining control over himself. When he opens his eyes again, Scully is gazing at him, waiting patiently. In that moment, looking up at him, her face flushed from her orgasm and her eyes liquid, she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, and he can't stop himself from whispering "I love you" in her ear as he slides into her.

He moves slowly, gently, keeping his weight off of her as much as possible. He can see that she's already exhausted- it had already been an interminable, difficult day, long before they had arrived back at her apartment- and he's almost relieved when his climax begins to build quickly. She's soft and limpid against him, participating as much as she's able, running her hands up and down his back, clasping his head to her so that she can kiss him, occasionally raising one leg to lock around his hips. When he comes, gasping her name into her neck, she takes his earlobe into her mouth and sucks gently. The added sensations course through him, and he shudders, just barely managing to keep himself from collapsing on top of her.

As obviously exhausted as she is, Scully manages to stagger into her bathroom to clean up, and while she's there, Mulder re-fills the water glass she'd brought him earlier. By the time he's back in her bedroom, she's lying in bed, smiling sleepily up at him.

"You're staying, right?" she asks, her voice slurring slightly.

"Of course," he says. He climbs in next to her and kisses her sweetly. "Are you all right? I didn't hurt you?" She shakes her head.

"I feel a little guilty, though," she admits.

"Why?"

"Well... we've made love twice... and I was drunk once, and almost too tired to stay awake the second time," she says, smiling ruefully. "I promise you, I'm not normally this lousy in bed."

"Scully," he says, wrapping himself around her, "just the fact that it was _you_ makes it the best I've ever had." He kisses her forehead, her nose, her pursed and disbelieving mouth. "I mean it, Scully. I didn't just say it in the heat of the moment." He strokes her cheek. "I love you." Her eyes flood with tears and she buries her face in his neck, overwhelmed.

They curl up together under Scully's heavy down comforter, though Mulder knows that within hours, he'll be boiling hot. Scully reaches over to the nightstand and turns off the light, then pulls Mulder's arm tightly around herself.

The darkness seems to have loosened something within Scully, because Mulder is just beginning to drift off when he hears it.

"I love you too, Mulder."


	9. Chapter 9

They're curled up together on Scully's couch, alternating between kissing languidly and watching the terrible sci-fi movie Mulder had insisted she needed to see. The remains of their Chinese take-out dinner are scattered across the coffee table in front of them. "Date night," Mulder had called it, winking playfully at her, when he'd shown up at her door an hour after they'd left work. And while it would have been nice to enjoy an evening out, dinner in a restaurant and a movie in a theater, it goes without saying that these days, especially on a work night, Scully doesn't have the energy for much more than this.

"What kind of date would you take me on if...." Scully pauses, just barely holding back the forbidden words. "If I weren't so tired?" She rolls onto her back and looks up at him. He grins, and she could swear he's blushing slightly.

"You'd never guess," he says. "Not in a million years."

"Well, knowing you," she chuckles, "it's bound to be original." It's not her imagination; he really does look sheepish now. "Stargazing? The planetarium?" He shakes his head. "Ghost hunting?"

"Scully," he says, "can I tell you a secret?" She nods, intrigued. "I, uh...." He ducks his head slightly. "I love dancing. _Love_ it." A surprised smile blooms across her face.

"What kind of dancing?"

"Any kind. Doesn't matter," he says. "I had ballroom dancing lessons when I was a kid, all the kids in my parents' social circle took lessons together. All the boys complained about it, and I did, too, to keep up appearances... but secretly... I looked forward to those lessons every week." He strokes her cheek, pushing her hair back behind her ear. "So if I had the chance... I'd take you dancing, somewhere fancy. Somewhere you could dress up, wear those ridiculously high heels you love so much, and we'd just... just dance. I'd hold you in my arms all evening, and then take you home and make love to you all night." Scully feels tears springing to her eyes. It's perfect, this imaginary date, and the knowledge that he'll never get to take her on it cuts deep.

Mulder looks alarmed at her tears. "Scully, don't cry," he says. He pushes himself up, climbing over her. "Come on," he says, pulling her to her feet. He shoves the coffee table back, out of the way, somehow managing not to spill any of the leftover Chinese food on the living room floor. "Dance with me." She raises her eyebrows.

"Here?"

"Sure, why not?" He bends and grabs the remote, silencing the TV, and tosses it onto the couch, before winding his arm around her waist and taking her hand in his.

"There's no music, for one thing," Scully observes. Mulder purses his lips in thought... and after a moment, Scully starts thinking that maybe she _can_ believe in things like mind control and spiritual possession, because what else could possibly cause Fox Mulder to sing a Dean Martin song to her in her empty apartment?

_"If our lips should meet, Innamorata,_   
_Kiss me, kiss me sweet, Innamorata."_

It should be ridiculous, a truly laugh-worthy moment, Mulder crooning an old love song in her ear as they sway slowly in her otherwise-silent living room... but somehow, it's not. Somehow, it's incredibly, achingly sweet.

_"Hold me close and say you're mine_   
_With a love as warm as wine._   
_I'm at heaven's door, Innamorata,_   
_Want you more and more, Innamorata."_

Scully relaxes against his chest, his voice serenading her in one ear, his slow, steady heartbeat echoing in the other. He curves his body down and around her, surrounding her with his warmth, and with his scent, which she imagines she can remember, even if her tumor-ravaged sense of smell can barely pick it up.

_"You're a symphony,_   
_The very beautiful sonata, my Innamorata."_

She looks up and meets his eyes, and the love she finds there warms her from head to toe as she realizes that this is how he sees her: as his own beautiful piece of music, of poetry, even with her prominent ribs, her pale skin, her lackluster hair, the dark circles under her eyes. Mulder sees past all of that.

In the days to come, she will think back on this moment often, to remind herself that as wrapped up in himself as he can sometimes be, he loves her, beyond doubt or reason.

 

\--------------

 

Mulder stumbles across Amy Cassandra in one of his usual Usenet groups, and right away, something about her story has the ring of authenticity to it. She describes an abduction experience that parallels Scully's exactly, with one crucial exception: she has, by virtue of a treatment she doesn't specify, begun to recall memories of her experience in great detail. Scully, he knows, has had only flashes of memory, quick visions of things she's not entirely certain are real, but that's about it. Mulder wonders: if she could remember, in greater detail, exactly where she was taken and what was done to her, would there be clues there, information on how to cure her?

Mulder contacts Amy Cassandra immediately, and when she suggests that he drive up to Rhode Island to meet with her and her husband, Dave, to get more information on the treatment she's undergone, he only hesitates for a moment. It will mean being several states away from Scully, which means that if something happens, it will take longer to get to her side. But when he weighs it with the chance of having more information, information that could, just maybe, lead him in the direction of a cure....

He accepts the invitation, but does not tell Scully where he's going. She'll try to talk him out of it, try to convince him that it's futile... and really, he's just going to ask the woman and her husband a few questions, and maybe talk to the doctor who's been treating her. What could be so dangerous about that?

 

\-------------------

 

 _He's not in his right mind_ , Scully reminds herself, as she watches Mulder peel off down the street in the rental car, leaving her stranded in one of the very last places she'd like to be right now. _He probably doesn't even realize I'm still here, that he's left me behind._ Even though they had been in another room, with the door firmly shut, Scully had been able to hear most of Mulder and his mother's argument, and it hadn't been pretty.

There's the sound of a careful, mincing tread on the stairs behind her, and when Scully turns, Teena Mulder is approaching her apprehensively.

"You're still here," she says blandly.

"I don't think he realizes that. He's not thinking clearly, Mrs. Mulder," she says, aware of how feeble the excuse sounds. "He's had some sort of treatment and it's causing him to say and do things he normally wouldn't." _Except really, Mulder ditching me is all too normal._ But now is not the time to dwell on that. "Do you have the number for a cab company? I need to catch up with him as soon as possible."

"Yes, I have a phone book," Mrs. Mulder says, and she retrieves it from a table in the kitchen. Scully orders a cab from her cell phone, then hands the book back to Mulder's mother.

"You're his partner," says Teena, peering uncertainly at Scully. She wonders, distractedly, whether Teena is high, or drunk; according to Mulder, either is equally likely. "The one who's ill."

"I- yes, I am," says Scully, taken aback. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize Mulder- Fox- had told you about the cancer."

"He talks about you often," Teena says. "I was sorry to hear about your diagnosis." Scully nods shortly. She is uncomfortable with this, with being alone with Teena, whom she does not know, has only spoken to once or twice. Her overall opinion is not favorable; what little Mulder has said has given her the impression of a cold, distant woman who holds her remaining child responsible for a long-ago event he could not possibly have prevented.

"I appreciate that," Scully says stiffly. "Fox has been a great comfort to me, these past months." Teena's eyebrows raise skeptically.

"Is that so?" She shakes her head. "I find _that_ to be something of a surprise." Scully's eyes narrow dangerously.

"Yes, I imagine you would," she says tersely. Teena opens her mouth to respond, but Scully doesn't give her the chance. "Thank you for letting me use your phone. I'll wait for my cab outside."

 

\-----------------------

 

If she hadn't been so terrified, Scully would probably have laughed at the absurdity of having a gun aimed at her. And if it had been any finger other than Mulder's on the trigger... well, she might seriously have considered just letting it happen.

After all, a bullet through the head is far cleaner, and far more painless, than what lies in store for her. The bullet, at least, will not involve bedpans or catheters.

But in the end, Mulder doesn't shoot her. He empties his clip into the wall and collapses in on himself, too far gone to protest when she takes him in her arms and tries to soothe him. The officers she'd left outside look completely baffled when they finally enter; it's clear they'd fully expected to find her dead on the floor, not wrapped protectively around her sobbing partner. She manages to keep them from arresting him, arguing that he needs a hospital, not a jail cell. She leads him, unprotesting, to the car, electing to drive him herself rather than wait for an ambulance.

For a moment, once she's got him buckled into the passenger seat and she's behind the wheel, she just sits there, watching him. His eyes are closed, tear tracks marking his face.

"Mulder," she says softly, "are you all right?" He doesn't open his eyes or look at her. "Mulder?"

"I almost killed you, Scully," he says dully. "I pointed my gun right at you." He shudders. "Again."

"But you didn't," she says. "You'd been hallucinating, Mulder. You weren't in your right mind." She reaches out tentatively and touches his shoulder, thankful when he doesn't throw her off. "But you stopped yourself, like I knew you would." 

"You _didn't_ know, Scully," Mulder protests. "Why did you come after me? Why did you just _stand_ there?" He looks at her, his eyes full of pain. "Why do you _always_ just stand there?"

"Because I'm your partner, Mulder, and I belong by your side," Scully says, gently but firmly. "Which is something you'd do well to remember when you get the urge to go running off by yourself." 

To that, Mulder has no response. He sits in silence as Scully drives him to the hospital.

 

\-----------------

 

There's no answer when Mulder knocks on Scully's apartment door, so after a moment, he lets himself in. The living room is completely dark. Wondering vaguely where Scully could be- they've been back in town a few days since his release from the hospital, and she hadn't said anything about going out tonight- Mulder gropes for the switch, flicking on the overhead lights.

"Turn it off!" Scully's voice, coming from the vicinity of the sofa, makes Mulder jump. He does as she says, almost reflexively. Blundering forward several steps, he comes around to the front of the sofa. In the dim light from the windows, he can just make her out, sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table.

"Scully?" He keeps his voice low, in case she's gotten one of her headaches. He sinks down onto the floor next to her... and that's when he smells the alcohol. As his eyes adjust, he notices the half-empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table, the glass tumbler clutched in her hand. "What's going on?"

"I'm getting drunk," she says.

"Yes, I can see that," he replies. "Any particular reason why?" She barks out a short, mirthless laugh.

"Reason?" She shakes her head. "Take your pick, Mulder."

"Something's happened, Scully," says Mulder, undeterred by her sarcasm. "Something new. What is it?" She says nothing, only takes another swig from her glass of scotch, nearly spilling it down her shirt in the process. Gently, Mulder takes the glass from her and sets it on the coffee table. She doesn't protest. "Scully?"

"My brother called me this afternoon," she says, finally. 

"Which one?"

"Bill," she says. "My older brother." She draws her knees up to her chest. "His wife is pregnant." Mulder frowns. 

"And you're upset because... you're worried you won't be around to see your niece or nephew born?" She shakes her head, and Mulder's confusion deepens. He can't think why Bill's news would drive Scully to drink... unless... but no, that's impossible. He still hasn't found a way to tell her what he'd found in Allentown that day, so how could she know?

"I haven't been completely honest with you, Mulder," Scully slurs, and it's like she's pulling his own words right out of his head. "Before I started my first round of treatment... the _real_ treatment, I mean, not that torture Scanlon put me through... my doctor advised that I have my ova harvested." It's lucky she's not looking at him, lucky the room is dark, because Mulder is sure his face is giving him away right now. "Radiation can make a woman barren, you know." She leans her head against her knees. "I didn't really see the point... I mean... my chances of survival are basically shit. No, Mulder," she holds up a hand, silencing his inevitable retort. "You know it's the truth. Why should I be worried about having kids when I'm probably not going to be alive in a year, right?" She does look at him now, and she seems almost embarrassed. "But then... I thought about it more... and I realized how upset I'd be with myself if I _did_ survive, and I hadn't done everything I could to give us a shot at having a baby."

 _Us._ Somewhere in Mulder's brain, it registers that she'd included him in her decision. He swears the ache in his heart is physical.

"So I told the doctor sure, go ahead, take whatever you can and freeze it," Scully continues. "And they tried... but Mulder, there was nothing there _to_ take." She does look at him now, and even in the dark, he can see the pain in her eyes. "Even if I find some miracle cure, even if I survive this... I'll never be able to have children." Her voice hitches, and tears gather at the corners of her eyes. "They really _have_ taken everything."

"Not everything," Mulder says, before he can stop himself. Scully looks up at him sharply.

"What do you mean?" she asks. He glances nervously at the scotch on the coffee table.

"Scully, maybe now's not the time for this conversation," he says. "Maybe we should wait until tomorrow, when you're sober-"

"Mulder," she says, her voice deadly serious, "whatever it is, I want you to tell me right now." He closes his eyes and sighs.

"Before I tell you," he says, "I want you to keep in mind how sick you were in that hospital in Allentown. It might have been wrong for me to keep this from you- in fact, it was almost definitely wrong- but I just didn't want to lay anything else on you, not when you were already going through so much."

"Mulder, just _tell_ me," says Scully, exasperated.

"At the fertility clinic, where I found out that Scanlon wasn't what he seemed," says Mulder, "they were storing ova. Stolen ova, taken from women who'd been abducted." He swallows hard. "Yours were among them." Scully sits very still, the expression on her face unreadable. "I stole them back, Scully. One of the hybrids at the clinic gave me a cold storage container, and I got them out of there. I didn't want them being used in any of their experiments." Still, Scully says nothing. "I had them sent to a cryogenic facility here in Washington and stored under a pseudonym, so they couldn't be found by anyone else." Silence. "I don't know whether they're viable or not. But... I couldn't leave them there, Scully. They're yours."

"Were you ever going to tell me?" she asks, her voice quiet and expressionless.

"Yes," he says. "Of course I was."

"When?"

"As soon as you were better."

"Mulder," she says, "that's never going to happen."

"Scully, please don't say-"

"Mulder," she repeats, her voice louder, " _that's never going to happen._ " The look she gives him is almost pitying. "When are you going to accept that?"

"Never, Scully," he whispers. "When are _you _going to accept that I'm not giving up? That I don't know _how_ to give up, when it comes to you?" The set of her jaw sharpens. "And for what it's worth, I don't think _you've_ given up, either, no matter what you try to tell me."__

__"And what makes you say that?" In answer, he gestures to the half-empty bottle of scotch._ _

__"Would your brother's phone call have inspired a drinking binge if you'd really and truly thrown in the towel, Scully?" he asks. "If there's no chance you're going to live through this, no chance at all that you're going to get better... then what difference would it make if your ova were gone?" She turns away, but she doesn't contradict him. They sit in silence, until finally, Mulder reaches out and picks up what's left of her glass of scotch. He tilts his head back and drains it in one. "Not bad," he remarks._ _

__"So glad you like it," she replies dryly. She takes the bottle and pours him another shot. But before he can drink it, she takes his arm firmly. "Never, ever keep anything like this from me again, Mulder," she says. "I don't care how sick I am, I don't care if you think you're protecting me, I don't care what reasons you come up with why I shouldn't know. Never again, do you understand me?" He nods. "Good." She releases his arm, and he raises the scotch to his lips, knocking it back. They sit in companionable silence for a moment._ _

__"Scully," he says, softly, "you said 'us.'" She frowns at him._ _

__"What are you talking about?"_ _

__"Before," he says. "When you were talking about why you decided to have your ova harvested. You said you'd wanted to do everything you could to give _us_ a chance at having a baby." Her mouth falls open._ _

__"No, I didn't," she insists, flustered._ _

__"Yeah, you did," he says, and he can't stop the smile that's creeping onto his face. "I heard you, Scully, clear as day."_ _

__"Mulder, I wouldn't have said that. You must have misunderstood me."_ _

__"Nope."_ _

__"Honestly, Mulder, I-" He reaches out with the hand that's not holding his scotch and cups her cheek._ _

__"Scully," he says, gently, "I like the idea." Her eyes grow impossibly round. "And when the time comes... I hope you still like the idea, too." Tears come to her eyes again, and she doesn't speak, only nods... and after a moment, she kisses him, and he knows all is forgiven. She holds out her hand._ _

__"Give me back my scotch, Mulder," she says, and he obliges._ _


	10. Chapter 10

Scully's having a hard time reconciling the Mulder of a few weeks ago- solicitous, caring, stopping by her apartment every evening for no other reason than to make sure she's okay and doesn't need anything- with the Mulder of the past two weeks.He's distant and preoccupied, not even commenting when she skips lunch. She never thought she'd miss him cajoling her to eat, but after a week without it, she begins to wonder at his distraction.

She invites him over for another "date night" on Wednesday, but he declines, without even giving her a reason. She does her best to hide her disappointment.

On Thursday, while discussing a case, she moves her chair so that they're sitting next to each other, instead of facing each other across the desk. He stiffens instantly. As an experiment, she leans her head on his shoulder... and he actually _gets up_ from his chair and goes to stand across the office, as far from her as possible.

For the first time in months, he doesn't offer to accompany her to her Friday afternoon doctor's appointment. He doesn't even call to see how it had gone later that evening. 

She leaves him a message Saturday morning, telling him she'll be at her mother's for a dinner party that evening if he's looking for her, but she doesn't really expect to hear from him. She can't make up her mind if she does or doesn't want him to notice the tremor in her voice; is unsure of whether she wants him to call back and ask her what's wrong.

She doesn't know whether she wants to tell him that, when she'd woken up this morning, her vision had been nearly dark for a full fifteen minutes. She'd been seconds away from calling him in a literal blind panic when the darkness had, mercifully, begun to subside... though her vision in her left eye remains, hours later, slightly cloudy.

If it hasn't gotten better by Monday, she'll need to speak with Skinner. She knows she can't be in the field with impaired vision. And while she doesn't care so much for herself- it's not as though she's got much time left anyway- there's no way she'll endanger Mulder's life. Watching his back is difficult enough with two fully functional eyes; she hasn't got a prayer of managing it when one's suddenly not working.

Scully still drives herself to her mother's house, however, rather than getting a cab. She can still see well enough for that much, and anyway, she's really not up for the conversation with her mother that will likely ensue if she shows up in a taxi. She's hyper-vigilant of her surroundings the entire time, taking care not to bump into anything or anyone, and by the time she sits down to dinner, she's exhausted, not at all up to keeping up a happy face for her brother, or to making polite small talk with the priest she _knows_ her mother invited because of her.

When Mulder calls, it's both a shock and a relief... at least, until Bill corners her on her way out the door.

"You're leaving before dinner's even over? Really?" Scully sighs. She's not in the mood to deal with this right now- or ever, really.

"I have to, Bill," she says.

"You couldn't tell your partner you'd be there when you finished eating? It's that much of an emergency?" She glowers at him.

"When your CO tells you it's time to ship out, do you tell him to wait while you finish what you're doing?" she asks. Bill puffs up, offended.

"That's not the same and you know it," he says. "No way can you equate what the Navy does with what that partner of yours does."

"I'm not having this conversation now, Bill," Scully says firmly. "I need to go."

 

\----------------------

 

Scully comes close to breaking down when Mulder doesn't ask her _why_ she can't run off to Canada with him... but she doesn't.

She almost breaks down again when he meets her at his apartment and doesn't seem to even notice the marks left on her face and neck after her fall down the stairs... but she holds herself together. Barely.

But when he strides off and leaves her in front of the warehouse, without a thought for how she's going to get herself home, without even acknowledging the final, most damning piece of Kritschgau's evidence... something inside of her snaps. She strides off after Mulder, not troubling to keep her voice down.

"So that's it, then?" she yells. "I can't follow you off to the Yukon at a moment's notice, so you have no more use for me?" Mulder hunches his shoulders, but does not stop, or even slow down. Scully's shorter legs have to work extra hard to keep up. 

"Not now, Scully," Mulder warns her, but she can't stop.

"I spend years- _years_ , Mulder- listening to the most outlandish theories imaginable, but I come to you with something credible, something that can be substantiated, but it doesn't fit your belief system, so you just walk away? Well, _fuck_ you, Mulder, just- _SHIT!_ " Her tirade is cut short as she crashes into something heavy and solid on her left side, sending herself sprawling onto the sidewalk. Her ribs, already sore from her earlier spill, protest sharply, and she cries out as she hits the ground.

In an instant, Mulder is at her side, sliding his arms under her shoulders and helping her to sit up. 

"Scully, you okay?" He sounds concerned... but also confused. And as she looks back to see what she's tripped over, it becomes obvious why. "You, uh... you ran into a mailbox." She says nothing. There's a streetlight directly above them, so she can't even claim she hadn't seen it in the dark. Gingerly, she gets to her feet, dusting herself off. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mulder," she says, her tone clipped. He raises his eyebrows.

"Fine. Right." He looks at the mailbox, and then back at her. "Guess you just didn't see it."

"Or maybe I was so angry with you that I wasn't paying attention."

"Or maybe there's something you're not telling me?" She clenches her jaw and looks away from him. "Scully? How's your vision doing?" She glares at him. "When were you going to tell me?"

"I was going to see Skinner on Monday, if it hasn't gotten better by then," she says.

"That's not what I asked, Scully," Mulder says. "When were you going to tell _me_?" 

"When you stopped acting like you don't care," she says. He looks at her as though she's slapped him.

"Scully...." He tries to take her shoulder, but she jerks free.

"Just... just _don't_ ," she says, unable to keep the plea out of her voice. "I can't do this." She turns and walks away from him, back to the main road, where she hopes she'll be able to hail a cab to take her home.

 

\-----------------

 

Mulder has been here before.

The physical location has changed, it's true, but the rest is the same. The crushing feeling of failure. The all-consuming guilt. The pain. The loss.

The loaded gun in his hand.

If it's the truth... if he's been strung along, all these years... if Scully is dying because of a fucking _hoax_.... It had been bad enough, believing that she was sick because of her involvement with him, because of his never-ending quest for an elusive truth. But the thought that they've done this to her in an attempt to get him to believe in something that _wasn't even true in the first place...._

Two weeks ago, he'd sat with her in her apartment, telling her he doesn't know how to give up, to let her go... but in the days following, as she'd gotten sicker, as she'd doggedly continued to try and hide how much worse she'd been getting, he'd realized something else: he does not know how to watch her die.

When she'd been going through chemotherapy, it had been difficult to see her so horribly sick, but he'd understood it to be a necessary sickness, an unavoidable side effect of a treatment that could save her life. And plus, during chemo, there had been things that he could _do_. He could comfort her while she'd thrown up, he could bring her water to wash out her mouth and ginger ale to settle her stomach, he could run out to buy food that wouldn't make her sick. He could drive her home when she'd been too tired, he could tuck her into bed, and, when all else had failed, he could make space in his bed for her and comfort her in the middle of the night when she'd come looking for him.

Now, he feels like all he can do is sit back and watch, and he doesn't know how to do that.

He doesn't know how to help her anymore, doesn't know how to help her through her problems instead of trying to solve them, doesn't know how to accept that maybe they _can't_ be solved. He's failed to find a cure, and in his eyes, that makes him useless to her.

This has all been a terrible, twisted game of chess, and they have both been unwitting pawns, moved all over the board without even the knowledge that they were _being_ moved at all. It would be so much easier for everyone, Mulder thinks, if he were to just... remove himself from the board all together.

Scully will never forgive him. He's well aware of that fact, and it hurts... but really, does he deserve Scully's forgiveness, even now?

In the end, it's the ringing of the phone that saves him. Kritschgau's warning sends Mulder barreling up the stairs to the apartment above his own- and what he discovers there changes everything.

 

\-----------------

 

Mulder is tempted, for just a moment, to keep silent, to wait until Scully has her shirt all the way off before he speaks... but the longer he stays quiet, the more likely it is that she catches sight of him sitting here. The room is dark, and she is, he reminds himself, armed, upset, and potentially visually impaired. He's already decided that he won't be dying at his own hand tonight; he'd hate to have her accidentally do the honors instead.

"Keep going, FBI woman," he says suggestively, as Scully's t-shirt clears her navel. Predictably, she jumps about a mile.

"Mulder, what are you doing? Why are you sitting in my bedroom in the dark?"

It takes very little time to fill Scully in on this latest development. Between Ostelhoff's ID card and the phone logs Mulder had managed to rescue from being burned, it's clear that this entire thing is far more insidious, far closer to home for both of them, than they had originally thought. Scully's horrified by the thought of the FBI being involved, but she doesn't fight him on the idea, doesn't try to tell him he's paranoid or crazy.

Convincing her of his plan going forward, however, is another matter.

"Mulder," she says, exasperated, "this will never work. Figuring out that Ostelhoff's body isn't yours will take the police all of ten minutes."

"Not necessarily," says Mulder. "I'm not exaggerating when I tell you there's not much of his face left to identify. Not much hair, either."

"Still, Mulder," says Scully, "the moment they get him to the M.E.'s office, they'll know. Fingerprints, blood type, dental records- nothing is going to match you."

"I only need a little while, Scully," he insists. He's kneeling on her kitchen floor, next to the chair in which he sits, and he puts his hand on her knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "They won't find the body for hours yet, I'm betting. They'll call you to identify it, and you can stall getting there. That buys us some more time. And when you tell them it's me, they still have to process the crime scene and photograph everything before they can take the body out. That's at least another hour right there."

"Why would they call me first?" Scully asks, confused.

"Because I have you listed as my next of kin," he says. For a moment, Scully's expression softens, but just as quickly, her face turns grim again. She frowns at his hand on her knee.

"That might be the first time you've voluntarily touched me in two weeks," she says, and stands up, brushing his hand away.

"Scully...." He reaches for her, but she shrugs him off. She crosses to the kitchen counter and leans against it, her head hanging down.

"Mulder," she says, "you can't bounce back and forth like this. It's not fair to me, not knowing where I stand with you."

"That hasn't changed, Scully," he says. She shakes her head, still not looking at him.

"One moment, you're holding me in your motel room and giving me birthday gifts. The next, you're accusing me of working against you... and then, within hours, you're making love to me, telling me you love me."

"I do, Scully. I just-"

"And barely a week later, you're making me chase you all over New England while you're putting yourself- _and_ me- in danger." She turns to face him, and there are tears in her eyes. "Then you tell me you want to have a _baby_ with me, in the unlikely event that I survive this... and then you finish by completely ignoring me for two weeks, by running off to Canada in search of this supposed _proof_ of extraterrestrial life, and holding it against me when I can't go with you. What the hell am I supposed to think, Mulder?"

She deserves an answer, he knows she does, but he doesn't know how to tell her what's in his heart, not when he can't even say the words. Telling her that he loves her had been far easier than admitting, out loud, that he cannot stop what is happening to her.

Scully seems to know she's not getting an answer from him. She walks away, back towards her bedroom, without looking at him. "You can sleep on my couch for a few hours," she says, over her shoulder. "Then you can go do what you need to do. I'll wait for the phone call here." She goes into her bedroom without waiting for a response... but she does not shut the door behind her. 

Mulder manages all of two steps towards the couch before he nearly crumples under the weight of his own shame, his cowardice. He can't leave it like this, no matter what it costs him. There's no telling what could happen at the Department of Defense in the morning- he could be arrested, held without bail, kept from her while what little is left of her life drains away.

It takes nearly all of his strength, but he turns, leaves the living room, and follows her into her darkened bedroom.

She is sitting on her bed, still dressed. With the blinds closed, he can barely make out the shape of her bowed head. He sits next to her, but he does not touch her- not yet.

"I've lost a lot of people in my life, Scully," he says, his voice quiet. "My sister, my father... friends, people I've worked with... but I've never lost anyone that meant this much to me." She looks at him, her eyes finding his in the dark. "And I've never lost anyone like this." 

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... everyone else, it was in the blink of an eye. They were there, and then they weren't." He draws a shuddering breath, trying to keep in the emotion that's been fighting to escape all night. "I've never had to stand there and watch, to watch for _months_ , and not been able to do anything to stop it from happening." He reaches for her hand. "I don't know how to just watch and wait, Scully. I can't do it. I don't know how."

"Mulder," she says, and she doesn't sound angry anymore, "I don't need you to _do_ anything. I've never expected you to stop this from happening."

" _I_ expected to stop it, though," he says. "I thought I could find a cure... or failing that, a bargaining chip, something to force the people who did this to you to undo it."

"I know you did, Mulder," Scully says, her smile sad and tinged with affection. "But all I need for you to do- all I've ever needed for you to do- is to just be _here_. I need you to hold my hand and let me lean on you when I can't stand on my own." Mulder can't help it; he laughs.

"I don't know if you've noticed, Scully," he says, "but you're not that good at letting people do that for you." Scully, thank god, chooses to grin, and not take offense.

"We're quite the pair," she admits. "I don't know how to lean on people, and you-"

"And I don't know how to stand still long enough for someone to lean on me," Mulder finishes. He scoots closer to her on the bed, reaching out and taking her in his arms. She buries her face in his neck. "I'm so sorry, Scully," he whispers. "For everything. I'm sorry I dragged you into this, sorry this happened to you, sorry I don't know how to fix it... and I'm sorry I don't know how to live with it all."

"Almost none of that is your fault, Mulder," Scully says. "But I know you well enough to know that that won't stop you from feeling guilty for all of it." She draws back and presses her lips to his forehead tenderly. "Mulder," she whispers, "I'll do what you want when they call me, I'll cover for you, I'll misdirect them as long as I can... but I need something from you in return." It's dark in the room, but not so dark that he can't see the intensity in her eyes.

"Anything, Scully."

"I need to know you're going to be okay," she says. "I can't go through this knowing you're going to fall apart when I'm gone."

"Scully," he murmurs, his face buried so deeply in her neck that his voice is muffled, "you're a part of me. How can I promise I'll be okay when you'll be taking part of me with you?"

"Because maybe," she whispers into his ear, and he shivers in spite of himself, "if I'm really a part of you, then I'm leaving a part of myself behind." She presses an open-mouthed kiss to his neck. "You know me better than anyone, Mulder. You know me in ways my family doesn't, ways my family doesn't _want_ to know me. I need you to keep that part of me alive, Mulder. Nobody else will." He turns his head to the side and captures her lips with his, kissing her deeply.

It's only their third time making love, and Mulder is fully aware that it's likely to be their last. Scully tries her best to disguise her gasps of pain as sounds of pleasure, but he's not fooled. Failing that, she tries to tell him that the pain is just from her fall down the stairs, but he sees through that, as well. He tries to stop, again and again, but she urges him on each time, just as aware as he is that they will, more likely than not, never do this again. He is as gentle as he can possibly be, his muscles quivering and his body shining with sweat from the effort it takes him to control himself, to move incredibly, excruciatingly slowly. It's just as well; the pace gives him the time he needs to memorize every detail of her, to hide it away in his heart, to be treasured after she is gone.

This is the way she looks when he is inside of her. This is how her skin feels against his. This is the sweet scent of the skin just behind her ear, this is the sound she makes when he kisses her, when he touches her, when she climaxes.

This is the inimitable comfort of lying sated in her arms, her legs tangled with his, his head pillowed on her breast, her fingers stroking his hair.

"I'll see you soon," he promises her hours later, as he kisses her at her door.

He can see on her face that is hasn't escaped her notice: he does not specify when, or where... or even in which lifetime.


	11. Chapter 11

When Mulder sees Scully lying in the ICU, her face pale and still, tubes sprouting from her mouth, all of his strength leaves him in one great rush and he doubles over, lightheaded, his heart racing.

“What happened to her?” he asks Skinner, once his breath- and his ability to speak- have returned.

“She went into hypovolemic shock,” says Skinner. “She’s lost a lot of blood.”

“Due to what?” asks Mulder. Skinner remains silent, stoic as ever. “ _Due to what?_ ”

“She’s dying,” says Skinner, and the harshness of the statement takes Mulder’s breath away. It’s not that he doesn’t know, on some level, that it’s the truth… but he doesn’t dwell on it, not ever, barely even allows himself to think the words, and to have them said out loud drives the air from his lungs as effectively as a blow to the solar plexus.

“Let’s go,” says Skinner firmly, taking Mulder by the arm, but Mulder jerks out of his grasp.

“Let go of me,” he says.

“There’s nothing you can do,” insists Skinner.

Those are the exact words to make Mulder snap- because they’re the truth, the truth he cannot face. He rips free from Skinner.

“Get off of me!” he snarls, trying to pull back, but Skinner has him by the lapels, and now the agents he’d left in the hallway have caught up. They grab Mulder by the arms, ensuring that he cannot get free.

“Don’t do this,” says Skinner firmly. “Don’t make me put you under arrest.” It’s those words that get through to Mulder, that pull him back, calm him down enough that the agents release him. The very last thing he wants is to be put under arrest, to be forcibly kept from Scully’s side, let out only when it’s too late.

Mulder stands in the ICU hallway, staring through the glass at Scully, at the too-even rise and fall of her chest, her shadowed eyes closed, her hands at her sides. It’s too much to look at, too much like seeing her on life support years ago, watching her hold onto life by a thread, another time when it had seemed, like now, that there had been no hope.

She’d come back to him then. He wonders if that was his miracle, the only one he gets in this lifetime.

Skinner comes to stand by his side. “Blevins has asked to see you,” he says. “I’m here to escort you to his office.” Mulder glares at him.

“So, under arrest by default, anyway?” he says.

“Not yet,” says Skinner. “All he wants, right now, is to know why you’ve faked your death, who the body in your apartment belonged to, and who shot him.”

“In other words, he wants enough information to officially arrest me,” says Mulder. Skinner gives him a hard look.

“Is he going to need to?” asks Skinner. “Is what you’re going to tell him going to lead to that?” Mulder looks away, back at Scully.

“I’m not saying anything that will enable them to keep me from her side,” he says firmly. Skinner sighs.

“Then Blevins will be forced to call a hearing,” he says. Mulder nods shortly.

“Let him.”

 

————————

 

“Bill,” says Scully, when her brother re-enters the room and it becomes clear that Mulder is not going to follow him, “what did you just say to Mulder?” Even from across the room, with her vision in her left eye all but nonexistent now, she can see the guilt on his face- but it’s quickly replaced with righteous indignation. _Typical_ , Scully thinks.

“Nothing he doesn’t deserve to hear,” Bill growls. “And definitely nothing _you_ shouldn’t be telling him yourself.” He glares at Maggie. “Or you, even, Mom. How can you let him in here, peddling his ridiculous theories and his bogus cures?”

“Bill,” says Scully, her tone warning him, but he pushes ahead.

“And how can you even _think_ about listening to him, Dana? Do you not hear how insane this sounds? Asking your doctor to stick a piece of metal in your neck?”

“You have to admit,” says Maggie tentatively, “it does sound a little… bizarre.” Scully rolls her eyes.

“There’s already _been_ a piece of metal in my neck,” she says. “All the women who’ve developed this cancer after going through what I went through, they _all_ had chips in their necks. None of us got sick until we took the chips out. There’s a clear, indisputable relationship… and none of them were ever offered a replacement.” She shakes her head. “Given what I know, I don’t see how I could possibly _not_ try this.”

“You keep talking about this disease like it’s something that was given to you, something that was done to you maliciously, but it’s _cancer_ , Dana. It’s terrible luck, and I’m more sorry for it that I can say, but that’s all it is, and frankly, your insistence that it’s all evidence of some big, dark conspiracy is proof enough for me that your partner’s completely warped your worldview.”

“No, Bill, that’s not all it is,” says Scully firmly. “I’ve looked at samples of my own blood, my own DNA, and I can clearly see that it’s been tampered with. I can see _what_ was done to me… the only part that remains a mystery is _who_ has done it.” She looks towards the door, wishing Mulder were here to back her up. “And if he’s right about who’s responsible, then they’re the ones who were storing this chip. I _have_ to try it.” She looks up at her mother, at Bill. “And if it doesn’t work… well, what have I got to lose?”

For once, not even Bill has an answer for her.

 

————————

 

Mulder sinks down to his knees by Scully’s bed, overwhelmed, sobbing like he hasn’t sobbed in years. He tries not to clutch at her hand too tightly, tries his best not to wake her… but within seconds, she’s stirring, looking down at him, frowning.

“Mulder?” she slurs, squinting in the dark. “Is that you?” In the low light, with her vision getting worse by the day, he thinks she probably can’t make out his face. _Which means,_ he thinks gratefully, _that she can’t see that I’ve been crying._ He clears his throat.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says softly. “I didn’t want to wake you… I just needed to see you, make sure you were okay.” She scoots back on her bed, making space for him, and pats the mattress invitingly. He sits down, keeping hold of her hand. She frowns, unsatisfied, and pulls at his hand again, coaxing him to lie down beside her. He tentatively puts his arms around her, holding her close without squeezing, mindful of her sharp gasps of pain as she tries to make herself comfortable. When she’s where she wants to be, he freezes, afraid to move even an inch. For several minutes, they lie there, perfectly still.

“Mulder,” she whispers, her voice soft in his ear, “I’ve been thinking.” He pulls back and looks at her, waiting. “When the time comes, I don’t… I don’t want to die here, in the hospital.”

“You’re not going to die, Scully. Give the chip some time-“

“ _Mulder._ ” Her voice is no less firm for her lack of strength. “Please, just let me say this.” He squeezes his eyes shut, tamping down the urge to contradict her, to reassure her, to reassure himself. _Listen to her_ , the small voice in his head insists. “I don’t want to die in the hospital. So if it becomes apparent that the chip isn’t working, that Dr. Zuckerman’s treatments aren’t working… I’m going to check myself out of here.” She looks up at him. “And Mulder, something tells me I’ll need your help to do it. The doctors, my mother, my brother… they’re all going to fight me on it, I know they will. I need you to stand by my side and help me convince them.”

“And if they won’t be convinced, Scully?” Flashing back on Bill’s face, Mulder can’t imagine any scenario in which Scully’s brother will be forced to accept the idea of Scully leaving the relative safety of constant medical supervision.

“Then I’ll need you to pick me up and carry me out of here,” Scully says, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“I can probably manage that,” he says. “Might have to fight them off with my free hand, though… so it’s a good thing you’re so tiny.” Scully’s half-smile blooms into the real thing, and Mulder’s heart is instantly warmed. “So… if the time comes… you want to go home?” Scully looks pensive.

“Not necessarily,” she says. “It’s not so much that I want to be in my apartment, or yours, or at my mother’s house, or any specific place… I just don’t want to be _here._ I don’t want my last sight to be these four dingy walls.” She relaxes her head against his chest. “I’d like to see the sun, the sky….” She sighs. “God, what I wouldn’t give to see the ocean again, one more time.” She closes her eyes, and within minutes, her breathing becomes slow and even.

Mulder’s mind continues to turn her last word over and over again, long after she’s fallen asleep. _The ocean._ It’s mid-September, the beginning of the off-season… and the beach isn’t _that_ long of a drive from D.C…. but she’s in pain right now, a great deal of pain. A car trip of any length is likely to be an ordeal for her. Could he possibly get Zuckerman to prescribe enough painkillers to see her through an hour’s ride in as close to comfort as possible?

Then there’s the question of where to bring her. If he had more time, and if she were stronger, he would bring her to the Vineyard, to his family’s old vacation home… but if being in the car for an hour or so would be too much for her, a full day would likely be downright torture.

Thinking back to his cab ride here, he closes his eyes, picturing the streets he’d passed en route. His eidetic memory tosses up a perfect picture of the block next to the one that holds the hospital, and he remembers: there’s a travel agency within easy walking distance. They’re not going to be open at two o’clock in the morning, certainly, but if he’s there as soon as they _do_ open, he should be able to make his arrangements and get back here in time to see Scully one more time before the hearing begins.

Mulder waits patiently, Scully sleeping fitfully in his arms, until the sunrise begins to peek through the hospital windows. He disentangles himself, slowly and gently, managing not to wake her. She whimpers softly, the pain still managing to break through the drugs in her IV enough to keep her sleep uneasy. Watching her, Mulder feels his heart break yet again.

“Oh, Scully,” he murmurs as he gazes down at her, his voice jagged. He wants, badly, to touch her one more time… but he won’t risk waking her, won’t risk intruding on what little rest she’s managing to get. He steals out of her room and out of the hospital, striding down the sidewalk in the early-morning chill to wait at the locked door of the travel agency, until, at eight o’clock, it’s finally opened by a very confused proprietor. Mulder imagines the man doesn’t often have people waiting on his doorstep.

The arrangements are made gratifyingly quickly- Mulder’s nervous energy is contagious, and the travel agent works at top speed, probably just to get rid of him- and in less than twenty minutes, Mulder is on his way back to the hospital, a sheaf of brochures and a receipt clutched in his hand.

Just as he’s arriving, though, his cell phone rings. Blevins is summoning him to his office yet again.

Talking to Scully will have to wait.

 

————————————

 

Scully is awake when he enters her room, looking distinctly as though what little sleep she’s managed hasn’t been enough. He smiles as he sits down on her bed again.

“Good morning,” he says.

“What are you doing back?” she asks. “You have a hearing.”

“I know,” he says. “I just… I needed to see you again.” He gives her the bare-bones outline of what’s happened, his being offered a deal (though he leaves who was doing the offering out), Blevins pushing him to implicate Skinner, his decision not to comply. Scully tries, again, to convince him to claim that she’d been the one to shoot Ostelhoff, and again, he refuses. She’s clearly frustrated with him.

“Then why’d you come here if you’d already made up your mind?” she asks, and he smiles sheepishly.

“Because I knew you’d talk me out of it if I was making a mistake,” he says, and she smiles. “And also… I had something I wanted to show you.” From his suit pocket, he pulls out the brochure he’d gotten from the travel agency that morning and hands it to her. She squints at it, then closes her left eye all together and holds it close to her right.

“Haven House?” she asks. “Mulder, what is this?”

“It’s a bed and breakfast in Ocean City,” he explains. “It’s right on the water. Most of the rooms overlook the beach.” She frowns, still confused.

“And you’re showing this to me because….” He reaches for her hand.

“We’ve got a reservation there,” he says. “It’s the off-season, which means the place is mostly empty; in fact, they shut down for the year in a little over a month. But since most of the rooms are empty, I didn’t have to give them a specific date of arrival… or departure.”

“You’re going there?” she asks. “On vacation or something?” He shakes his head.

“ _We’re_ going there,” he says. “If the chip doesn’t work, Scully, I’m taking you out of here.” He can feel the tears starting, but he doesn’t care. “You’ll be able to see the ocean, like you wanted. And I’ll….” He swallows, overcome. “I’ll stay with you. Until it’s over.” The tears are running, thick and fast, down her face, as well.

“Mulder,” she cries, and falls into his arms.

She’s still crying when it’s time for Mulder to go, unable to let go of his hand as he leaves her with the priest and with her prayers.

 

—————————

 

He’s the first one she calls, and he arrives within minutes- in fact, he tells her on the phone, he’s already on his way. She’d sent her mother and brother home for the evening hours ago, knowing she was due for a PET scan soon and not wanting them hovering around her, waiting for the results, waiting to give her their requisite “I told you so’s” if the scan showed no change.

She’d been mentally preparing herself for there to be no change. Logic had dictated that there wouldn’t be. Reason, pure reason, had said that “no change” was the best she could hope for.

Her rapidly-clearing vision in her left eye, however, had said otherwise.

She’s tired, still- completely exhausted- and she dozes off twice before there’s finally a knock on her door, and Mulder sticks his head in.

“Hey,” he says, softly. “I’m here. How are you feeling?”

She’s been preparing what she’ll say to him ever since she’d seen the results of the scan, the evidence of the miracle she knows, in her heart, was found and brought to her by him. She’s decided what she’ll say to thank him, how she’ll tell him how she never would have survived this ordeal without him by her side, how it was his faith that had kept her going. She’s ready, now, to say it, this eloquent speech of thanks and devotion she’s prepared in her head.

Instead, she bursts into tears.

Mulder looks horrified, and in seconds, he’s by her side, his arms around her, murmuring comforting words in her ear, trying to calm her down.

“Scully,” he says, “what is it?” He looks terrified. “The chip’s not working, is it?” And she can’t help it- she starts to laugh. “Scully?” She manages to compose herself… and as she meets his gaze, she can see, clearly, the moment he sees and comprehends the joy in her eyes. “It’s working?” He breathes the words softly, as if to say it aloud will dispel the chip’s effect and stop the tumor’s sudden and inexplicable shrinking.

“It’s working,” she says. “There’s no evidence of cancer cells in my bloodstream, no secondary tumors… and the original tumor is all but gone. I can see again, there’s no bone pain, and….” She leans close to him and inhales deeply against his neck, unable to help herself. It’s been so long. “I can smell. I can smell _you_ , Mulder.” He laughs.

“Glad I showered today, then,” he quips, but then, he grows serious. “Do they know what’s causing it?” She shakes her head.

“Not at all,” she says. “Dr. Zuckerman would like to claim it was his treatment, and of course my mother and brother are insisting it’s a miracle directly from God, but….”

“And you?” Mulder asks. “What do _you_ think, Scully?” Now, thankfully, some of what she’d been planning to say begins to come back to her.

“I think it’s a combination,” she says. “I know it’s going to grate on my brother… and on you, even more, but… I think you finding that chip was an answer to my prayers, Mulder. I know it’s going to drive you crazy, being the instrument of a god you don’t believe in, but….” She shrugs, a little embarrassed. “That’s what I think.” He grins.

“Scully, if it means you’re going to be okay, I’ll be the instrument of whatever deity you want,” he says, and she laughs. “Have you called your family yet?” She nods.

“They should be here in a few minutes,” she says. “I just… I wanted to call you first. I called you first when I was diagnosed, and I felt… I felt like I wanted you here at the end of it, too.” She pulls him down to her and kisses him. “I’m still not going to be myself just yet,” she warns him. “I’m still underweight, so I’m still going to be tired and….” She purses her lips in a thin line. “Not up to my usual potential.” He laughs.

“You can’t even _say_ the word ‘weak’ in relation to yourself, can you?” he chuckles.

“Shut up, Mulder,” she says, but there’s no malice in it.

“Now _that’s_ the Scully I know,” he says, and they both laugh. He holds her close, stroking her hair. “How long do you think we have until your family gets here?”

“Probably just a couple of minutes,” she says. He nods.

“I’ve got a phone call to make when they arrive,” he says.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he grins. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out the brochure for Haven House. “There’s a reservation I need to change.”

 

————————-

 

**Epilogue**  
**Two Months Later**

 

The beach is completely empty- but that’s to be expected the week of Thanksgiving. Haven House is, technically, closed for the season, but offering double the high-season rate was enough to convince the elderly couple that own the bed and breakfast (and who live in it year-round) to allow them the use of a room for a few days.

They’d arrived here on Monday afternoon, two days ago. Tonight, Wednesday night, will be their last night; they’re expected at Maggie Scully’s for Thanksgiving, and though Mulder has done his best to change Scully’s mind about going, she’s been thus far immovable. 

She’s been equally adamant that he’ll be attending with her, and at the moment, his only consolation is that Bill will _not_ be there, because his wife, Tara, is too pregnant to travel.

Maggie, of course, _will_ be there, and her attitude towards Mulder, these days, changes from one day to the next. She vacillates towards being grateful for whatever role he’s played in her daughter’s recovery and being suspicious of his intentions regarding her daughter (especially since they’re more or less living together, and she does not approve). 

She’d been downright furious with him when Scully had announced her intention, once she’d recovered enough to resume field work, to return to the X-Files. Maggie (and Bill) had been pushing hard for her to return to teaching at Quantico.

But Scully, Mulder well knows, is not a woman who will be talked into things. She prefers to gather evidence and go in the direction that it points. You can give her advice, certainly, and she might even take it, if it fits in with the evidence. But you don’t _convince_ Dana Scully to do things. It’s an exercise in futility.

It’s only taken Mulder four years to learn this about her. He wonders, sometimes, whether or not her family has been paying attention at all, if they _still_ haven’t learned it.

Or maybe she just opens up to him in a way she never has to him. It’s what he prefers to think, if he’s being honest with himself.

They’ve spent most of their three days in Ocean City relaxing, either wrapped in blankets on their first-floor patio, or naked in the king-sized bed in front of the fireplace. Scully has coaxed Mulder out of their room for exactly one evening, and only because she’d found a restaurant in town that featured a live band and a dance floor. Beyond that, it’s been three days of eating, sleeping, and making love.

This morning, Mulder wakes up to an empty bed, the sheets on Scully’s side cool. Her coat and shoes are gone from next to the patio door, so he pulls on sweatpants, a t-shirt, and his coat, and ventures outside.

She’s not on the patio, but beyond the dunes, down by the water, he can just make her out, standing at the edge of the waves, facing away from him. 

She’s still, occasionally, closed off to him. There remain topics he doesn’t broach, things she’s reluctant to discuss. Chief among these are her stolen ova, still waiting frozen, their viability unknown. He hadn’t been sure, for a while, if she wouldn’t discuss them because she was scared to take them to be tested… or if she’d had second thoughts about asking him to be a part of that particular journey.

Then, two weeks ago, he’d opened the fridge in her kitchen to take out the milk and had noticed, paper-clipped to her calendar, the business card he’d given her from the cryogenic storage facility, containing her account information.

In red ink on the calendar beneath it was an appointment date for early December.

Scully had come into the kitchen then and had spied him studying the calendar, and when he’d met her eyes, her cheeks had flushed slightly.

“Might as well know what we’re dealing with,” she’d said. “If anything.”

Mulder crosses the patio and walks down the path between the dunes. Scully doesn’t turn around as he approaches, but she must hear his footsteps on the wet sand, because she doesn’t startle when he slips his arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest.

“Sure I can’t convince you to just stay here for the rest of the week?” he murmurs against her hair. She sighs.

“I have to go, Mulder,” she says. “My mother didn’t think she’d have me for another Thanksgiving. I’d feel guilty blowing her off.” She leans her head to the side and looks up at him. “If you’re really going to be that miserable, though, you don’t have to come with me.”

"Nah, Scully, I'll go," he says, kissing her forehead. "You've followed me into enough dangerous situations. I can manage dinner with your mother." He sighs. "And her priest." She chuckles.

"You know, Mulder," she says playfully, "I'm sure I could get you invited out to Bill's for Christmas, too, if you want to come with me."

"Thanks, Scully, but I think coming to one family holiday is enough for the first year of a relationship, don't you?" She smiles and winds an arm around his neck, pulling his face down into her shoulder.

"Scully," Mulder says, "what's your mother going to say when we... um... if we...." He trails off uncertainly.

"If we what, Mulder?" 

"If we... at the appointment in December, if it turns out that your eggs are viable, and we...."

"And we... what?" He chances a look down at her, and discovers she's grinning. She's enjoying his discomfiture. "And we have a baby?" He swallows hard and nods.

"Yeah," he says. "What's she gonna say?"

"You mean, how's my mom going to react to you getting her unmarried daughter knocked up, Mulder?" She giggles. "I guess we'll just have to cross that bridge if we come to it, won't we?" She giggles again. It's the first time he's heard her giggle in nearly a year, and it nearly brings him to tears. He squeezes her tighter against his chest.

He's still hesitant to hope too much for this, and he knows that she is, too. The ova could turn out not to be viable... and even if they are, it's no guarantee that IVF will work. It's a future for them that he's still, when it comes down to it, too scared to even begin to dream about.

But Scully _has_ a future now. _They_ will have a future. For two people whose lives seem, sometimes, to be drowning in sorrow, to stand together and speak, with any certainty at all, of the days to come is a miracle in and of itself.

For Mulder, it's the purest, strongest joy he's ever known. It's nothing but bliss.


End file.
